Howl At Night
by The Prickly Pear
Summary: ON TEMPORARY HIATUS DUE TO MEDICAL EMERGENCY. Sorry for the inconvenience. Just another author trying to clean up the mess that was the final two seasons. Featuring an ensemble cast, intelligent characters, logical plots, prophesied heroes, winter weather, and a Night King with a plan. Suitible for fans of Starks, Targaryens, Lannisters and everyone in between. No character bashing
1. THE GIRL WHO WOULD BE KING

Hello! Thanks for stopping by!

This story picks up at the conclusion of Season 6 of Game of Thrones and goes AU from there. While it is based primarily within the show canon, elements, characters and plot lines from the books will feature as well. I have done my best to combine the two sources in the most cohesive way possible to further the story I aim to tell, but if anything isn't clear please let me know!

You do not need to have read the books to enjoy this story.

'Ships' are not the focus of this story, however there will be a variety of relationships in background roles. Relationships, both platonic and romantic, that appear in this story are not necessarily endgame and are subject to change - for better or worse.

All kinds of feedback are welcome and encouraged! Comments, critiques, questions, constructive criticism, I appreciate every single comment I receive. I love chatting with my readers so please feel free to drop me a comment and say hi!

**This story features strong language, sexual content, graphic depictions of violence, injury and death, depictions of mental illness, and other mature themes. Reader discretion is advised.**

Please Enjoy!

Prickly

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**THE GIRL WHO WOULD BE KING**

Sansa I

The shouts and merriment of men celebrating victory and the naming of a new king followed Sansa as she excused herself from the Great Hall. Jon had left some time before her, never one for the ruckus of festivities and especially not when they centred around him, but Sansa had wanted to stay to watch and listen as lips got looser thanks to drink and food and loud company. Still, there was only so much drunken boasting she could stand. She moved through the castle toward the Lord and Lady's chambers, which she had taken as her own, with an ease born out of years of practice. Winterfell may bear the scars of the Ironborn and Boltons alike, but nothing could stop it from being her home and no one would ever take her home from her again.

The din of the Great Hall gave way to moans of pain, coughing and the occasional cry that echoed through the halls the further she traveled into the castle. The battle against the Boltons' forces had claimed many casualties, more than she dared to think about, and every able-bodied citizen they could spare had been assigned to assist Maester Wolkan in getting the wounded settled and treated. Jon had insisted on treating all the injured men, not only their own, citing the need for '_as many living bodies as they could get'_ and Sansa would be willing to wager that the wounded outnumbered those still fit. Outside the castle walls, she knew the remaining Wildling fighters were gathering all the dead into funeral pyres to be lit come morning. They'd started long before Jon had given the word for others to help them, a grim determination on their faces.

Sansa knew that she would have to send someone down to the kennels to fetch whatever scraps of Ramsay the dogs may have left and add them to the pile, but found herself in no rush to do so. She would happily leave him to rot down there, forgotten, until he was nothing but a stain on the stone floor, but if she was truly to believe that the dead could rise it would have to be done. The thought of an undead Ramsay Bolton, however ravaged, was not something she was prepared to consider. Perhaps she'd just burn the kennels down? There was nothing worth saving there, and she realized she couldn't know the amount of poor unfortunate souls who had been left at the mercy of the hounds since the Boltons captured Winterfell.

"A wise choice, my Lady, outstaying your brother amid the celebrations."

Sansa paused, allowing herself to indulge in the briefest moment of pride at not having startled at Baelish's arrival, before turning to face him. "Lord Baelish," she greeted, "Hardly a choice at all, Jon is well known for his dislike of such things."

Littlefinger smiled, stepping out from the shadows and approaching her with an ease that set her teeth on edge. She had told him no once already, but she was uncertain he would accept it a second time. In that respect, he and Ramsay were uncomfortably similar.

He stopped in front of her and took her hand in his own, bringing it to his lips. "Of course," he agreed, as if he knew the first thing about Jon's temperament, "Still, many a spurned sibling would have forgone the festivities altogether."

"Spurned sibling?" Sansa repeated, surprised by the lack of caution if not the observation but careful not to let on, "A treasonous statement, My Lord."

"Forgive me, My Lady, I meant no offence. I am certain Jon Snow will make a fine king and represent House Stark with honour."

Sansa studied him even as she kept her own face impassive. "As am I," she replied firmly, "Good evening, Lord Baelish."

He took the dismissal in stride, his smile still in place as he gave her a sharp bow. "Sleep well, Lady Sansa."

_Sleep well, indeed, _Sansa thought dryly, watching the Lord Protector of the Vale disappear in the direction of the continuing festivities. She may have been a fool once, but she was one no longer. The empty-headed girl who had left her home dreaming of balls and gowns and golden-haired babies had been reshaped by tooth and claw, knife and thorn, antler and wing, and the woman who'd jumped to freedom from Winterfell's walls found herself almost insulted by Baelish's lack of subtlety. He knew all too well that she had favoured her mother as a child and shared her view on most matters, and he was certainly aware of Catelyn Stark's feelings toward her husband's son. And now that boy had been named King, despite his name…

Sansa sighed. Petyr expected her to be angry, ashamed even, at being passed over in favour of the Bastard of Winterfell even while she sat at his side… And in truth, she _was_.

_We know no King but the King in the North whose name is Stark._

She was a Stark, quite possibly the last Stark, and yet they had picked her brother in her stead. _Half brother_, as Baelish would surely point out if he were privy to her thoughts. Sansa had never been more grateful that he was not. She was angry, and she acknowledged that, but it seemed Petyr expected her to overlook the fact that her position as a Stark had been called into question in no small part due to the marriage he had sold her into. The Boltons had left a stain on her that the rest of the North could not ignore.

More than that, Sansa knew that the other Northern Lords had noted her childhood preference for her mother's Southern culture long before she left Winterfell for the first time. She had never made any secret of her desire to marry into the, seemingly, more glamorous world of Southern Lords and knights and Ladies. In truth, while the choice insulted her, when she put emotion aside, she did understand. From appearance to temperament, Jon had always had more of the North in him than she had.

Littlefinger was a master at the game, but in this one instance Sansa knew that she understood something that he simply could not. She was no longer the key to the North; she hadn't been since the day death had freed Jon Snow of his Night's Watch vows.

Reaching the Lord and Lady's chamber at last, a wave of memories and safety and warmth that seemed to lift away the weight of her troubles and responsibilities engulfed Sansa as she stepped inside. This was her mother and father's room. The place she used to hide when the summer storms howled at the castle walls. The place she and Robb and Arya and Bran and even little Rickon had sat with their parents and listened to tales of Riverrun and Winterfell in years past. The place they would gather, only the seven of them, to exchange gifts on namedays. The place where her mother would braid her hair before a feast while she had confided all the worries of her silly, naïve little world…

Sansa moved further into the room, her hand trailing over the pelts which covered the bed almost in reverence until a small bloodstain on the wooden headboard caught her eye. This was her mother and father's room. The place where Ramsay had fucked Myranda while she was locked, bruised and bloodied, in another room. Her hand jerked away from the furs as though scalded.

_No._

This was her mother and father's room. This was warmth and safety. This was _home._

But it was too late.

Echoes of Ramsay's blade played across her inner thighs and danced its way playfully toward her cunt while his phantom cock pressed against her ass, and she bolted from the chamber before it could go any further. Breathing shakily, she let her feet carry her through the familiar halls once more while the contradiction between safety and terror threatened to bring her to tears.

This was her home. Her _home_. She could not, _would_ not, let Ramsay take that from her. But the reminders of his affections — still painful and only just beginning to heal — begged to differ, and she resigned herself to wandering the halls alone for the evening. It wasn't until she found herself standing outside the door to Jon's childhood room that Sansa realized her feet had a destination in mind. Despite offering the Lord and Lady's chambers to him following the battle, her brother had insisted on returning to the room allocated to him during their youth. The one located close enough to the Lord's chambers to be socially acceptable, yet far enough away dissuaded any notion that he was truly one of the Stark children.

The thought sent a pang of guilt through her chest. She had spent their childhood making certain that Jon was well aware of their difference in standing and mimicking her mother's behaviour toward him. They rarely spent time together, and she was realizing only now how little she knew of her older sibling. At her insistence, he had forgiven any past conflicts back at Castle Black but all the same…

Did he actually want to go to the Wall? She had always assumed he did, but perhaps he hadn't been given a choice. What style of fighting did he prefer? Robb had always excelled on horseback, and she had dreamt of watching her gallant brother ride in tourneys and bestow his favour upon her when he won, while Theon had invariably preferred a bow and bragged of being the best marksman in all the North. Her father had seemed most at ease with a sword in his hand and his boots on the ice, simple and without extravagance, yet deadly. But what about Jon? She had no idea. What did he prefer to eat? She knew that Arya would often sneak into the kitchens with Jon's help and hoard her stash of dried meats and pies in her room, but what did Jon take for himself?

How could she share her home with someone for thirteen years and know almost nothing about him?

The answer was obvious, of course. She had been a self-centred little girl who wanted to be a princess, and a bastard brother didn't fix into that fantasy. Perhaps the Gods were laughing at her expense by creating a reality where that same brother ended up King? True, she had few memories of being outright cruel to Jon, but that was more because of how rarely they interacted. They got on fairly well at Castle Black or, at least, she thought they had, and Jon had gone out of his way to help her without question, but she knew it was perfectly likely that he would not appreciate spending his first evening as King playing big brother to a sister who had never cared for him. Not until she needed him, anyway.

How long she stood there, undecided, Sansa couldn't say, before a muffled thump and a quiet exclamation of pain from behind the door pulled from her thoughts. Concern flooded her, leaving no room for fear or guilt, and she rapped on the wood sharply.

"Jon?"

There was no reply, but then, Sansa had never intended to wait for one. She pushed the door open and stepped inside without further hesitation.

Jon was sitting on the edge of his bed, bare chested with a sodden cloth in his hand and a bowl of water next to him. He gazed up at his sister with a wide-eyed expression that would have been comical if not for the state of his body. Bruising had turned his torso and arms into a patchwork of blues, blacks, purples and reds, all of which only served to highlight the deep stab wounds marring his chest.

"Jon…" Sansa let the door fall closed behind her as she moved to his side.

Jon grimaced and reached out to retrieve his tunic from where it lay to one side. "It's nothing, Sansa."

Sansa refused to dignify the platitude with a response. She stilled his hand with her own while the other traced the angry, raised edges of the gashes. "This is how they killed you."

It wasn't a question, but Jon nodded all the same as his gaze skirted over anything other than his sister's face.

"I assumed they were healed when the Red Witch did… whatever it is she did," Sansa continued softly, tendrils of horror winding their way through her, "When you said you didn't want to fight, I didn't… I'm sorry, Jon."

Jon shook his head. "I'm not. You were right. And this…" he gestured vaguely toward his chest, "This isn't why I was hesitant."

Sansa tucked that piece of information away for later. "Do they hurt?"

Jon gave her a wry smile. "Not as much as they should."

Sansa frowned but again chose not to push the matter and returned instead to studying the wounds. "I'll send for Maester Wolkan, these will need cleaning and sewing up…"

"No," Jon's hand shot out and caught her wrist, the action and sudden strength in his voice startling them both. "Sansa, no."

Refusing to pull away or back down, Sansa replied with equal force, "There's corruption in some of them, Jon — "

"These are killing blows," Jon interrupted, dropping her wrist and sagging back as though the uncharacteristic response had drained him completely. "The fewer people who know…"

Sansa sighed, but conceded her brother was right. Neither of them knew Wolkan, and the sorcery used to return Jon from the dead was beyond either of their understanding. Frankly, it was something she would rather not consider at all. "Let me tend to them, at least," she relented.

"I don't suppose you'll let me be until you do," Jon tried to joke, but it fell flat to both of them, and he grimaced tiredly. "The lads at Castle Black sewed them up before you arrived, but the thread became corrupted. I took it out before the battle… I needed to be able to move…"

Sansa winced at the image Jon's words conjured up as she continued to inspect the wounds. "Gods…" she breathed, fingers ghosting over the damaged flesh, "They haven't healed at all…"

"Aye, I know. I'm not sure they will, there's no blood to them. It's as though they stayed dead while the rest of me…"

"That's an awful thought," Sansa sighed, picking up the cloth Jon had abandoned and soaking it in the bowl of water once more. Moving as gently as she could, she began washing dirt and corruption from within the wounds. She felt Jon's muscles stiffen under her fingers as she worked, but he stayed quiet and didn't move away. "If it wasn't these that made you hesitate about getting our home back," she continued after a moment, choosing her words carefully, "What was it?"

For a time it appeared Jon wouldn't answer. Sansa glanced up from her ministrations and caught sight of his face, eyes closed and his mouth pressed into a firm line, and thought perhaps she had pushed too hard.

"Why are you here, Sansa?"

The question caught her off guard and allowed the insecurities that had plagued her in the corridor came flooding back in full force while Ramsay's knife nipped at her skin tauntingly. "I… I couldn't sleep."

"Because of Ramsay."

It was a statement, and Sansa felt herself flush. She had been vague with Jon while explaining what had transpired upon her return to Winterfell, unwilling to relive her time as Ramsay's wife now that she had been free, and he hadn't pushed. Still, it seemed he had gleaned more from what she hadn't said than he had let on. She'd forgotten Jon could be perceptive when he wanted to be.

Jon opened his eyes and smiled sadly at her, "War's the same thing. I remember everything. Every man I've killed. All the men I couldn't save. All the men I've led to death… I remember how war smells, how it sounds, the feel of climbing over another man's insides while he screams for someone to help him… And I hate it, Sansa, I hate fighting. But I knew why I was fighting, and I believed in that and in the people I was fighting for…"

"And then they killed you."

"And then they killed me," Jon agreed, "And I was lost. I didn't know any more. But then you came, and you pushed and forced, and here we are," He reached out and took his sister's hand, "I know why I'm fighting again. I'm fighting for the living. I'm fighting for the North. I'm fighting for my family. I'm fighting for you. And for that I thank you, Sansa."

Sansa broke eye contact first, the gratitude in Jon's gaze something she was unaccustomed to, and returned her focus to his wounds. "These are as clean as I can manage," she announced in a clumsy attempt to drag the conversation away from war and death and Ramsay, "I'll come back tomorrow evening with some boiled wine to wash them more thoroughly, perhaps talk to Maester Wolkan about some ointment — discreetly, of course," she added, catching Jon's expression, "For now, though, I think we should bandage your chest. That should help keep them clean, at least, and perhaps reduce the pain some."

Jon's face twitched with amusement at her tone, a little smile playing on his lips. "Yes, Lady Stark," he teased.

Sansa felt herself return his smile without realizing it, and _something_ uncoiled in her chest. "Do you have any clean bandages?"

Jon pointed them out, and Sansa set to work wrapping his damaged torso. With that finished she helped him into a fresh tunic and, assuming he would now want to rest in peace, moved to leave him to it.

"Sansa?" Jon interrupted her exit, "I was planning on putting a few more hours into sorting through the North's finances and food stores. A second pair of eyes wouldn't go amiss…"

Sansa paused. "Are you asking for my help, Your Grace?" she questioned, using his new title to ensure he understood the implications of his request. A king going to a woman for advice…

"Gods, yes."

And for the first time in what had to be years, Sansa truly smiled. "What have you found so far?" she asked, moving to the desk by the window at the back of the room.

"I've gathered what I could," Jon stood up stiffly and moved to join her, "The castle has been through so much that I fear a substantial portion of the records may have been lost…"

Sansa hummed thoughtfully, her mind already buzzing with the challenge, "I suggest we start with any reports from before Robb marched South, and work out the discrepancies as we move forward…"

And just like that, Ramsay disappeared — at least for tonight — beneath a North that needed saving and a brother's steady presence by her side.


	2. THE STAINS OF WAR

**THE STAINS OF WAR**

Brienne I

The castle smelled of burning flesh, and Brienne suspected it would for days to come. They had set the bodies of the dead alight that morning at daybreak, and they continued to burn even now, just beyond Winterfell's walls. She, Lady Sansa and Podrick had watched as their newly named King had addressed the crowd who had gathered to say their farewells before igniting the first of several massive pyres himself. She had been tasked with lighting one of the other pyres, following King Jon's lead, and she had completed her duty grimly. She hadn't been able to help but search the pile of lifeless men for familiar faces as she set them aflame, but she had found none. Unbidden, the realization that she was just as alone here in the North as she had been anywhere else across the Seven Kingdoms had danced across her mind.

Fortunately, Lady Sansa had left the pyres not long after that, pulling Brienne from her wholly inappropriate thoughts. She and Podrick had followed her away from the crowd, keeping pace with her until they reached Winterfell's kennels. There they had stayed back in respect as she set the kennel ablaze herself. Brienne hadn't asked why, and nor had Podrick, but they had stood in solidarity with their Lady all the same. As the flames had engulfed the building, King Jon had appeared at his sister's side without a word. The four of them had remained like that, shoulder to shoulder, until the roof collapsed before they had gone their separate ways.

From there the day had comprised a continuous stream of physical errands. As she and Podrick had been absent during the battle to oust the Bolton bastard from her Lady's rightful home, they were some of the few uninjured people available to begin the extensive task of getting the castle back in order. Lady Sansa had instructed them to help Winterfell's maester, a man named Wolkan, in any way he might require. So far, that had included organizing sleeping arrangements for the wounded, fetching and carrying supplies and, in her case, helping to move injured men or restrain those needing amputations. That final task was a grim one, made all the worse when the subject was aware and pleading with her to stop the pain or save their doomed limb. She was used to death and blood and gore, but the sound of metal sawing through bone would always send a chill through her spine.

She had also been present when a young soldier had drawn his last breath. He had been nothing more than a child, skinny and pale with spots and the first wisps of a beard, but he had looked even smaller buried beneath seemingly endless bandages. Maester Wolkan had asked her to sit with him after their last amputation of the morning as he had been crying for his mother overnight, and he had hoped she could bring him some comfort until the Stranger came for him. He wouldn't see her, Maester Wolkan had assured her. He had been trampled during the cavalry charge and his eyes had been damaged. She need only hold his hand and talk to him.

_Damaged, _Brienne had thought as she had looked down at him, _what a terrible understatement._ How this child had clung to life for so long she hadn't the faintest idea, but she had been certain it wasn't a kindness. There had not been a bone she could see that was not broken, his chest had been caved in on one side and it had been clear that he had taken more than a few blows to his head as his skull had shifted unnaturally with every gurgled, laboured breath. And his eyes… His eyes hadn't simply been damaged, they were gone, along with his forehead and nose. In their place had been an oozing, hoof-shaped indent that had bubbled with each pitiful breath. The only part of him that had appeared even remotely human was his mouth and bottom jaw, which had trembled as he whimpered in pain.

"Mummy, I fell," he kept whispering. "I'm sorry."

When he had begun exhaling more blood than bubbles, Brienne had known it was over. She had wished then, and still wished it now, that she had had some idea how to comfort him or what to say. More than that, she'd wished that there was a proper woman there, any woman, as they would surely have known what to do. In the end, she had touched what she hoped had been his less-broken shoulder awkwardly and told him to go to sleep, that he would feel better in the morning.

She had had to excuse herself briefly when he finally fell still.

Later she had asked Maester Wolkan for the boy's name so that she might locate his family. No one knew him.

When Brienne had returned to menial cleaning tasks some time later, she was still quite subdued. Nevertheless, working alongside Podrick proved a pleasant distraction from the memory of the soldier's broken face as his enthusiasm was as genuine as always despite the gore. Her squire was in his element, all but bounding from one bed to another delivering food, drink or supplies as needed. She caught sight of the occasional glower being directed at her squire's zeal and felt a burst of protectiveness for the boy who carried on unperturbed by the looks. There was a time when Brienne would have assumed that Podrick was unaware of the reactions, but that illusion had long since been chipped away. Podrick Payne was a good lad, clever in his way and far more so than he let on.

"Podrick," she barked, pushing the protective instinct aside, "Fetch me some fresh sheets for this bed." She certainly did not have to fight the urge to smile at the genuine eagerness in her squire's expression as he hastened off to comply.

Stannis's Onion Knight, Ser Davos, made no such effort and his amusement was obvious as Podrick dashed off. The older man had come to Maester Wolkan for a change of bandages on his arm and stayed to help with light labour. He was currently in conversation with a pair of Bolton men, and Brienne found herself envious of his effortless sociability, even with those he'd just fought against.

"I've seen few men more eager to serve than that boy," Ser Davos smiled over at her while the Bolton soldiers chuckled.

"Podrick is a most loyal squire," she replied stiffly, before turning pointedly back to stripping the bed in front of her. As pleasant as he appeared to be, Ser Davos had stood by Stannis' side for years, even as he had employed blood magic to murder the king she'd sworn to protect. And now he stood at King Jon's side, a thought which she did not find reassuring in the slightest. She was very aware that few shared her thoughts on the man, but Lady Sansa, at least, seemed to take his seductive words with a grain of salt.

The men took the obvious cue and returned to their conversation, leaving Brienne to her task. The sheets she tugged free smelled of corruption, urine and death. She wondered vaguely if the chuckling soldiers Ser Davos was entertaining had witnessed their neighbour's bowls let go as he succumbed to his injuries. Perhaps he had fought against them and they were pleased to see him die, or perhaps they had been brothers in arms and his death caused them pain. Looking at them again, she couldn't decide which possibility she preferred.

When she was a young girl, just beginning to dream of becoming a knight, she had spent many carefree hours envisioning all the glorious ways in which wars could be fought. She'd seen herself fighting alongside valiant knights as they sliced their way toward a good and prosperous realm. She had not envisioned urine stained sheets or crippled boys barely more than children crying out for their mothers in fear, nor the vast number of men who would die slow, painful deaths in the weeks following a battle.

Podrick's return pulled her from her dark thoughts and together they made up a fresh bed, free of the stains and smells of war. Her squire had just hurried off again with the pile of soiled linen, when a hush fell over the infirmary. Brienne straightened up at the sight of Lady Sansa, as beautiful and poised as ever, entering the room. She smiled up at Brienne as she made her way toward her.

"Lady Sansa," Brienne greeted, inclining her head respectfully.

"Brienne," Lady Sansa replied, her smile still in place, "I was hoping to have a word with Maester Wolkan?"

"The maester is with one of the wounded, I believe, my Lady. I'm sure he will return shortly, and I can pass along any message you should have."

"I'm happy to wait," Lady Sansa dismissed the offer kindly as she looked around the room.

Conversation had begun again, although to a lesser degree, following her arrival, and Brienne could see a few wounded men sneaking looks at their Lady from their beds. If Lady Sansa noticed, she did not let on. It was one thing, Brienne realized suddenly, that she and her Lady shared; they were both accustomed to the stares of men, albeit for vastly different reasons. The Lady of Winterfell seemed equally unaffected by the gore around her as she was by the looks. She moved gracefully from bed to bed, exchanging pleasantries with the conscious men. While she did not have the natural ease of someone like Ser Davos, Brienne found herself impressed by the younger woman's poise and so too, it appeared, were the injured men. Having made the rounds of the room, Lady Sansa returned to wait at Brienne's side, allowing the room at large to return to their previous conversations in earnest.

By the time Maester Wolkan returned, the Lady of Winterfell had been all but forgotten.

Wolkan looked worn down. His hands were freshly washed, and he dried them on a cloth as he entered, but his robes betrayed the nature of his latest treatment. Blood had soaked into his sleeves and shirtfront, sweat beaded his brow, and coppery grime was caked under his nails.

"Maester Wolkan," Lady Sansa greeted, turning to face him as he approached the pair and taking in his haggard appearance with a sympathetic frown. "How fare our wounded?"

"My Lady," he returned, "We suffered some losses overnight, and this morning, I'm afraid." Here he glanced sympathetically at Brienne before returning his attention to his Lady, "But less than I had feared. More men are improving than are failing, at least."

Brienne wondered grimly which category his most recent patient fell into, but kept the question to herself.

"We are in debt to your efforts, Maester," Lady Sansa said with practised polish, "On behalf of my brother the King and myself you have our sincere gratitude."

"No thanks are necessary, My Lady. A maester should not speak ill of his former Lords, but suffice to say that these men deserve nothing less than the best care I can offer them."

At that Lady Sansa smiled, and her posture softened. "I couldn't agree more. Now, I wonder if I might ask you a personal favour?"

"Of course, My Lady."

"I was hoping you may have something to help with the healing of bruising and open wounds."

The request sent concern surging through Brienne. If harm had come to Lady Sansa while she was away at Riverrun, she would never forgive herself. She'd been loathed to leave her Lady's side, but Lady Sansa had insisted… "Wounds should be seen to…" she began, firmly.

"These are older, Brienne," Lady Sansa interrupted gently, perhaps sensing her protector's worry, "I was only hoping for something to help with healing."

A pained yet understanding look appeared on the maester's face at the same moment that Brienne realized the subtlety of what Sansa was asking, the expression only serving to remind her that he, too, was familiar with life within the Bolton household. Not for the first time she wished for the opportunity to execute Ramsay Bolton herself, as slowly as she could manage.

"Of course, My Lady," Maester Wolkan gestured toward the door that led to the chamber acting as storage for his medicinal supplies, "If you'll come with me, I should have something that would be of help."

Bidding Brienne farewell, Lady Sansa followed the maester out of the main infirmary with her head held high. As they disappeared from view Podrick reappeared at her side, frowning slightly.

"Is Lady Sansa alright?" he asked, concerned.

"I believe she will be, Podrick," Brienne nodded to herself, "She will be."

"And you, My Lady?"

Brienne startled at the question and turned to Podrick. Her squire gazed back at her with such honesty and concern that she smiled slightly in spite of herself. "I believe I will be as well."


	3. THE FREEDOM TO FAIL

**THE FREEDOM TO FAIL**

Jon I

His first real act as King in the North had been a public address at the funeral pyres of several thousand slain men. Jon wasn't sure how he felt about that but supposed it was appropriate; only with all other options exhausted would the North be mad enough to name a bastard King. Even without the dead marching on the world at large, their situation was dire. Robb had taken most of the men south, all of their primary fighting force and a good portion of their reserves as well, and the slaughter at the Twins had seen only the Bolton and Karstark forces return to the North. Those who had remained in Winterfell had been subjected to brutality from the Ironborn and Boltons both, and the rest of the North had fared little better. They were heading into Winter with depleted food stores, a ravaged fighting force, farming lands either put to the torch or frozen beyond use already, and a castle full of injured men in need of supplies they didn't have.

Jon sighed and raked a hand through his hair as his breath disappeared upwards into the leaves overhanging the Godswood. It was snowing, as it had been since some point overnight, and the world was crisp and white and cold. If he tried, he could imagine he was back North of the Wall, surrounded by frigid beauty and freedom. And if he closed his eyes, he could see Ygritte's face as she mocked the way his people had greeted him with bows and curtsies all day.

_His people… Gods help him… _

He wondered if she'd be proud of him, somewhere beneath the mocking? He liked to think so. It was easier to consider that than to remember all the pointless deaths which had defined their time together, from her own, to Pyp and Grenn, to the Mag the Mighty, to the old horse breeder, to all the souls slaughtered at Hardhome…

They were, without question, the Night King's greatest ally.

Dragging his thoughts away from the dead, Jon sighed once more. If he could just show those memories to every Lord and Lady who simpered politely when he tried to explain what was coming and then dismissed his words. But he couldn't, and that left him trying to organize the defence of the realm with the only group of people who truly believed in the coming war.

Finding Tormund was never difficult, all he had to do was follow the noise. The red-haired man was, unquestionably, the loudest and most boisterous fellow Jon had ever met and a stark contrast to his own solitary disposition. Theirs was an odd friendship, built first on deception and then desperation, and yet it was genuine affection nonetheless. Tormund had come through on his behalf more than once, the supposedly savage wildling keeping his word even as the respectable Northern Houses broke their vows. If his rule could bring anything to the North, Jon hoped the Lords and Ladies would look to the free folk for examples of how to put aside animosity and make peace, even with those they'd been fighting for generations. It was the only chance they had at survival.

The snow crunched beneath his boots as he trudged out of the Godswood and followed the noise to the stables in which the free folk had set up their own makeshift infirmary after balking at the idea of receiving treatment from Winterfell's maester. The wave of relief he felt when he stepped into the crowded building and not a single soul paid him any mind and the raucous laughter and storytelling did not falter, was almost overwhelming.

_It was little wonder that so many rulers went mad…_

"King Crow!" An enormous hand clapped him forcefully on the back, knocking Jon free of his musings, "You're thinking again. You should never do that."

Jon felt a smile tug at his lips. "Alas, if only I had your self-control, Tormund."

The larger man let out a booming laugh and slung an arm around Jon's shoulders. "Come, sit awhile. Or should I fall to my knees and kiss your breeches, Your Grace?"

"Never."

Tormund laughed again, but Jon caught the understanding in his eyes that would forever go unacknowledged. "Mance was right, you have spent too long with us."

Jon didn't deny it. Tormund began regaling him with a (hopefully) exaggerated tale of a misunderstanding between a few of the free folk and some Northern Lords, and he allowed himself to relax into just being _Jon_ for a moment as he was herded toward an overturned feed-trough-turned-bench. A series of hearty claps on the shoulders and backs moved aside the men already sitting there, and Jon was deposited in their place with Tormund beside him.

"—wasn't proper," the chieftain of the free folk continued cheerfully, "How were they to know that? But the Southern soft cocks wouldn't hear it."

"Do us all a favour, Tormund?" Jon asked ruefully, "If the free folks want an audience with someone, come to me about it first."

"They were inspired!" Tormund protested, "A girl like that will have no shortage of suitors, they felt they had to move quickly!"

Jon shook his head fondly. "Be that as it may, we do not steal wives south of the Wall. Your men are fortunate Lady Lyanna was willing to let them leave intact."

Tormund waved a hand dismissively. "What other way does a man woo such a woman!"

"She's all of ten, Tormund. If they try again, I will allow Lady Lyanna to do as she pleases with them."

The redhead leered. "They may enjoy that."

"I doubt it."

Tormund laughed. "I imagine you're right."

They fell into a companionable silence. Jon took the opportunity to look around and take stock of the injured men and women scattered around the stables in various states of healing. The free folks had taken heavy casualties against the Bolton's force, just as everyone had, yet the mood around the stable was markedly more boisterous than within Winterfell. Battered and exhausted though they were, the free folk were just so damned _happy_ to be south of the Wall.

"What did I tell ye about thinkin'?"

Jon chuckled softly as he turned to find Tormund studying him, the larger man looking almost pensive himself.

"You didn't expect it, the crown."

Jon felt the humour slip away. "No," he admitted, "It shouldn't have been me…"

"I'm glad it is." Tormund cut him off, gruffly, "Another ruler would not have taken so kindly to us."

"My sister is a good woman — "

"I don't doubt it, but she doesn't know us like you do. She hasn't fought for us like you have."

Jon sighed. "I need to ask something of you, Tormund. I'm not your king, but I need your help. The Night's Watch is less than fifty men…"

"You want us to man the other castles?" Tormund guessed, "O'course we will! Those of us who are fit to travel will head out on the 'morrow."

Jon breathed out another sigh, this time of relief. "Thank you," he said honestly, "Now, there is just one more thing I was hoping you and your people could help me with…"

* * *

By the time evening had settled over Winterfell, Jon had a plan. It was not yet fleshed out, nor was it particularly politically sound, but it just might give them a fighting chance. That was, if it didn't kill them all first. Still, that spark of hope was more than he'd had since his brothers in black had driven their knives into his chest, and he clung to it as he looked over what he'd drawn up. He was certain that he could get the other Lords on board with some of it, so long as they didn't know who had helped him draw up the plans. It was just common sense. Even if they continued to doubt the validity of the White Walker threat, the impending arrival of winter itself should be enough to convince them. The rest of it, however…

Jon leaned back in his chair as he rubbed absent-mindedly at the ache in his chest. It was best not to think about the rest of it, he supposed. It wasn't as though he intended to ask anyone for permission.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

"Come," he called out.

It shouldn't have been a surprise, she had told him she would join him tonight when they'd spoken the night before, but even still seeing Sansa step through his door felt unexpected somehow. When she had seen him last night, when she had seen the horrors he tried to keep tucked away, he'd been shocked. He had never known her to enter a room without prompting. Hells, he'd never known her to enter his chambers at all. Yet he'd found the same comfort in her presence that he had at Castle Black, and he liked to think she had felt it too. They may not have been close as children, but they were family, and they were all that was left of a time they would never get back.

She was laden with supplies, and he could make out a jug and bowl along with clean bandages piled in her arms. He jumped to his feet to take some of her load and helped deposit the supplies on the furs of his bed. The grateful smile she gave him only served to make the whole situation more surreal. The rightful Queen in the North, Sansa bloody Stark, fetching and carrying and helping her bastard brother…

Jon shook his head, smiling despite himself at the thought.

"What?" Sansa asked, catching his expression as she looked up from organizing the supplies.

"You came," Jon shrugged. It was nowhere near the explanation she deserved, but they were the only words that would come.

Something that could have been guilt flickered across his sister's face before she stood, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin. "Of course I did. You're my brother," she said matter-of-factly, "Now, sit."

Jon obliged her without further comment. He tugged off his leathers and tunic and tossed them onto his bed before settling himself on the edge. Sansa had busied herself pouring boiled wine into the bowl and arranging a rag each for cleaning and drying. If this second view of his wounds unsettled her, she did not let on, and wasted no time in beginning her examination of them.

The steady ache Jon was growing accustomed to permeating his chest gave way to a sharp burning sensation the moment the wine touched his damaged skin. Leaning back on his hands, he breathed carefully through the pain, mindful not to disturb his sister's work. Sansa spared him a glance at the sound, her eyebrows knitted together in concern.

"I'm alright," Jon gave her a tight smile.

"Yes, you certainly look it," Sansa quipped dryly before seeming to catch herself, "Forgive me, that was — "

"Funny," he assured her gently, his smile loosening into something more genuine, "And you're quite right, of course."

Sansa mirrored his smile with one of her own before returning her attention to her task. Her fingers moved lightly, despite the sting of the wine, as she flushed each wound carefully.

Jon watched her work in silence for a while before speaking again. "You're right to be angry with me as well."

Sansa's hands paused for a moment before resuming their duty. "I'm not angry."

Jon noted the sudden stiffness in her posture, but chose not to argue. "You should be," he sighed instead, "I'm not a Stark; you are. It seems your mother was right to fear I would take was is rightfully yours."

And there it was, the truth that sat wedged between them. The same truth that had always been there, no matter how their father had tried to dissuade the notion. The same truth Jon himself had fought against all his life. Yet here they were.

"She wasn't," Sansa sighed, setting aside the wine-soaked cloth so that she might give Jon her full attention. "It's not you I'm angry with, Jon. Not really. I'm angry that my name means something only when in the hands of a man. I'm angry that I'm '_the key to the North'_ only when I spread my legs. I'm angry that I was, and will continue to be, overlooked based solely on my womanhood. I'm angry that the one man who claims to see my worth in truth only wants my cunt as he sits on the Iron Throne — "

"If Baelish so much as lays a finger — "

"Stop that! I don't need to be protected, Jon! I don't want to be protected! I want to be respected…"

Jon reached forward and took his sister's hands in his own, squeezing them gently. "You're right," he agreed, before smiling sadly, "You sounded so like Arya just there."

Sansa gave a watery laugh. "It seems she had the measure of the world long before I did."

Jon shrugged. "I'd always hoped you would never come to see the world as she did," he confessed.

His sister sighed heavily and extracted her hands from his grasp so that she could take a seat next to him on the bed instead. "I miss them, Jon."

Jon felt his heart clench uncomfortably. "So do I," he murmured, "Every day."

For several minutes they sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts and memories. For Jon, echoes of Sansa's confession played on his mind. Her anger was more than justified, and he held a more similar opinion than she knew. He was no king. Hells, he was hardly even a commander, as his sworn brothers had made abundantly clear. But Sansa… "I need your help. Sansa," he admitted softly, "You've got a better mind for politics than I ever will. I'm not meant to be a king, I never have been, it should have been you the North chose."

"Jon…"

"It's the truth, we both know it is." Jon kept his gaze fixed forward and therefore he nearly startled when his sister took his hand, interlacing their fingers and giving them a gentle squeeze.

"Of course I'll help you, Jon," she promised, "Always."


	4. THE ONES WE LEAVE BEHIND

**THE ONES WE LEAVE BEHIND**

Gendry I

Gendry wasn't a worldly man. Born and raised in the filth and poverty of Flea Bottom, he'd known nothing else until he'd embarked on his failed attempt to join the Night's Watch. Even when his mother was alive, he had seen little more than the musty little room above a pub they had shared with the other whores who worked there and their various bastards. It had been cramped and dark and crowded, but it had been home. Until it wasn't.

When his mother became too ill to work the pub owner had put them out on the street without remorse. Gendry had been too young to truly understand what was happening, and even as he had watched her yellow hair fade to white he remembered feeling nothing but joy at his newfound freedom to run and play wherever he wanted. That joy had died along with his mother, as had his desire to explore and see and learn. In the years that followed, he had seen nothing but the inside of Master Mott's forge.

When Ser Davos had loaded him into that tiny boat and set him free from Dragonstone's shores he had been faced, for the first time in his life, with options. He may not be an educated man, but he had a trade and it was one which was always in demand. He could travel anywhere, lead a life like the ones in the songs his mother used to sing, be anyone he wanted to be. The Riverlands were the only other region he knew anything of (that and the North, of course, but Arry had never exactly given details on how to get there) so that seemed the place to start. Perhaps he could make his way northward from there? Or perhaps he should head south? Everyone spoke so reverently about Dornish girls, after all. There were endless possibilities, and they had consumed his imagination on the tedious trip back to dry land.

He was back in Flea Bottom within a month.

He'd been working at some nameless forge deep in the centre of the slums when the Sept of Baelor was demolished. The unnatural green blaze of the wildfire had been seen clear across King's Landing as it burned like a second sun. Such had been its strength that for a time the perpetual shadow cast by Rhaenys' Hill, which blanketed Flea Bottom day and night, had been chased away. The sounds of the roaring fire and shattering stone had twisted together with screams of terror as destruction had whipped through the streets.

Gendry had been among the first group of men to run toward the carnage, smithing hammer in hand (and privately aware of the irony) intending to help those who could be saved. When he closed his eyes, he could still see it even now, the burned-out shell of Visenya's Hill which had been reduced in mere moments to a smouldering mound of ash. The outer edge of the fire's reach had been even worse than the site where the Sept once stood. There the ash gave way to death as the forms of those unlucky folks who had tried (and failed) to escape the chaos were still distinguishable where they had fallen, their skin blackened and blistered.

He'd decided that day that he would not spend another moment sitting idly by. Cersei Lannister was the Mad King reborn, or that's what voices whispered in the shadowed corners of the city that she would never see, and Gendry took that to mean it was time to make use of the Baratheon blood his father had given him. He may not be a learned man, but even he knew that when the Starks and the Baratheons had last waged war against a mad ruler, the Targaryen dynasty fell. He didn't have the faintest idea where Arry was but rumours had reached King's Landing that a bastard named Jon Snow had been declared King in the North, and perhaps that meant something as well.

And so, after all was said and done, Gendry found himself where he had considered going all those years ago in Ser Davos' boat.

The Riverlands were colder than he remembered, and the dampness only added to the aches in his body from walking for weeks. He had no money left to his name but took shelter in the first inn he saw all the same, hoping it would take the owners long enough to notice him and put him out that he could warm his hands and feet, at least. Tucking himself into the shadows by the door, Gendry allowed the bustling of the other patrons to wash over him as he did his best to remain inconspicuous. It was only after a moment that he realized one of the many voices around him seemed oddly familiar…

"Hot Pie?"

And sure enough, there he was, looking just as he had the last time Gendry had laid eyes on him; large, curly haired and clad in an apron of sorts and a smile.

"Gendry!"

The blacksmith flinched at his old friend's exclamation and glanced around to ensure that it hadn't attracted unwanted attention. Hot Pie seemed not to notice his caution, however, as he hurried over to him with such excitement that he narrowly avoided spilling the tray of food he was carrying. The unfortunate guest on whom he'd nearly dumped the pies glowered after him.

"What are you doing here? You look half starved. Come. Sit." Hot Pie herded him to a nearby table with the same boundless energy and pushed the food in front of him, "Try the pie, just made it m'self. Folks say I make the best pie, it's all in the butter…"

Gendry snatched up the aforementioned pie without hesitation and dug in. It had been several moons now since his last proper meal, not since before the Sept came down at least. He knew that Hot Pie was still speaking, but he paid him no mind. He recalled with painful clarity how the boy could ramble for hours.

"Where did you get that!?"

Startled by the change of tone, Gendry looked up from his food to find Hot Pie examining the meagre supplies he was travelling with and…

_Shit. _

Gendry hurriedly tucked his bedroll back around the head of his war hammer. No need to draw attention to it, for more than one reason. "I made it. Can't very well travel unarmed, can I?"

"Can you use it?"

"Well enough."

"You could be a proper knight with that! Just need some armour…"

"Armour doesn't make you a knight…"

But Hot Pie wasn't listening. "You'd be a good knight, you're plenty big enough." He decided.

_Still on about the bloody armour, then…_ Gendry barely suppressed a sigh and searched for a change of topic. "Don't suppose you have any ale?"

"O'course!" And Hot Pie was off.

This time, Gendry didn't bother to repress his sigh as he pushed his bundle of possessions further beneath the table with his foot. He'd made himself a sword when he first returned to Flea Bottom, the ever present threat of the Gold Cloaks giving him cause to carry a weapon, but it became apparent rather quickly that he had little aptitude with a blade. The hammer, however, felt right. Perhaps it was the influence of his father's blood, but if he were asked Gendry would dismiss the comfort he felt with the weapon as a by-product of a lifetime of smithing.

"Arry!" the name cut through Gendry's thoughts and he looked up sharply to see Hot Pie gesturing excitedly in his direction, "Gendry's here too! Come see!"

The next thing he knew, Hot Pie was ushering a very alive — and very unimpressed — Arya Stark toward his table. She'd hardly grown, that was the first thing Gendry noticed, still a tiny, unassuming little thing with that steely edge he'd come to love about her. It was at that moment that he realized just how much he had missed her.

"I can't believe you're both alive!" Hot Pie continued cheerfully, oblivious to Gendry's observations as he herded Arya into a seat at the table and settled down himself, "I thought you was both goners when the Brotherhood came back through here without ya. What happened?"

No one responded right away. Gendry was still busy looking over his old friend critically. She looked healthy and whole, but he found himself concerned by the emptiness in her eyes and the stoic expression she wore.

When it became obvious that Arya had no intention of answering, Gendry prodded her gently with a reply of his own. "I got sold to a red witch," he explained to Hot Pie.

"I ran," Arya shrugged, drawn somewhat into the conversation as Gendry had hoped, "Ended up with the Hound."

"The Hound?" Hot Pie looked torn between being impressed and horrified at the thought, "Joffrey's Hound, you mean? The big knight with the burned face?"

"Hmm," Arya nodded, "Then Braavos." She snagged the pie Gendry had been eating away from him and tore off a piece before returning the rest of it to him, "What did the Red Witch want with you?"

Gendry frowned and gathered up the remaining pie protectively. "My blood," he explained, "She was working with Stannis Baratheon. Did some spell with my blood and leeches."

Arya chewed thoughtfully. "Why your blood?"

"I'm Robert Baratheon's bastard." he confessed, the words still foreign on his tongue, "I didn't know. She said there was power in a king's blood or something. She and Stannis would have killed me, I think, if Ser Davos hadn't let me go."

If he had been expecting a reaction to his revelation, it didn't come. Arya simply finished the last of the pie calmly and wiped her hands on her trousers. "She's on my list, the Brotherhood too, they'll be dead soon enough."

Hot Pie, however, was a different story. "You're the King's son!" Thank the Gods he kept his voice down, but even so his excitement was palpable, "But, if you're the King's son shouldn't you be King 'stead of Cersei?"

Gendry groaned, already regretting admitting his parentage out loud. "I'm just a bastard smith, I shouldn't be anything."

"You'd be better than Cersei," Hot Pie shrugged.

"Anyone is better than Cersei," Gendry replied, nonplussed, "Is she still on that list of yours, Arry?"

"Yes. That's where I'm going."

Gendry frowned. "You're not going North?" he asked.

"Why would I go North? The Boltons have Winterfell, there's nothing for me there."

"Nah," Hot Pie cut in, "The Boltons are dead. Jon Snow came down from Castle Black with a Wildling army and won the Battle of the Bastards. He's King in the North now. He's your brother, ain't he?"

"Jon's king?" Arya's voice was soft, emotions flickering behind her eyes for the first time since she'd sat down.

"Aye, it's true," Gendry told her gently, "That's where I'm headed. Figured your brother would be a better ruler than Cersei."

There was silence for a moment as Arya stared at them. "You're serious."

Both men nodded, watching a flurry of emotions break free from Arya's eyes and dance rapidly across her face before she locked them away.

"I'm coming with you," she decided firmly, "You'd better not slow me down."

Gendry snorted. "Of course not."

* * *

In the end, of course, he did slow her down.

As they plodded northward through the growing darkness, Gendry tried valiantly to master the rhythm of the horse beneath him with limited success. Arya had only stared at him blankly when he had been forced to admit that he had never ridden before and had only the vaguest idea of what it entailed, before instructing him bluntly how to mount as she pulled the reins over the horse's head and took them in hand. The hours that followed had been spent in silence, with Gendry working to keep his balance on the horse's back while Arya led the beast from the ground. He'd tried to convince her to let him walk, but the stiffness in his body must have been obvious if the look the young Stark had thrown his way at the suggestion was any indication, and he'd given in without too much fight.

He had to admit that his aching muscles did appreciate the break, and Arya didn't seem troubled by putting in the distance on foot. From horseback, it had become evident that she carried herself differently than the last time he'd seen her. He remembered her as an expressive, strong-willed young girl whose actions reflected her wild nature, but the woman who now walked beside him moved with as much purpose as he had ever seen. There were no wasted movements, no expression and perhaps most disturbingly, no sound. Somehow, every one of Arya's movements were completely silent.

"How did you get to Braavos?" he asked at last.

Arya didn't look up, nor did her stride didn't falter. "Jaqen. He'd given me a way to find him if I ever needed to."

"Jaqen? The man from Harrenhal?"

Arya hummed in confirmation. "He's a member of the Faceless Men. I trained with him for a few years."

Gendry frowned, drunken tales and stories whispered in the darkest alleys playing in his mind. "They're assassins, aren't they? The Faceless Men?"

Arya glanced up at him, finally, her eyes calculating in the fading light. "That bothers you."

"Bothers me?" Gendry took a breath to gather his thoughts, trying to ignore the images of the tiny girl Arya had been with blood on her hands, "Of course it bothers me, Arry. They'll kill anyone for a price. How many innocent people did you slaughter in your training?"

The horse came to an abrupt halt and Gendry had to grab onto its neck to keep from toppling off. Arya had stepped in front of the animal without warning, turning to face her travelling companion with a stony expression. "I don't kill innocents."

They stared at each other for a long moment before Arya turned and led the horse forward once more. The beast snorted its displeasure, but complied.

Once he was stable in the saddle, Gendry sighed. "I imagine that didn't go over well. Surely they didn't just let you leave?"

"No."

"But…?"

Arya kept her eyes forward, leaving Gendry's prompt hanging between them for a moment before she replied. "But I'm here. They're not."

Gendry nodded, although he knew she wouldn't see him, and tried not to think too hard on the implications of that statement. "Good."

Silence settled over them once more as they continued down the King's Road. It wasn't long before night was truly upon them and Arya led the horse off the beaten trail to a suitable clearing where they could rest for the night. Gendry dismounted clumsily, his ass and thighs tingling from so long in the saddle, and stumbled to help set out their bedrolls as Arya set about getting a fire started. Hot Pie had sent them off with a couple of skins full of ale and some sweetbread and Gendry unpacked a loaf of bread and skin to share between them before flopping down on his bedroll. Arya joined him a moment later, her face lit by the glow of the newly lit fire as she set her little sword to one side and took the bread he offered her.

Gendry smiled at the sight of the weapon. "You got it back," he remarked.

Arya nodded and swallowed a mouthful of ale. "The Hound and I came across Polliver after leaving the Twins. I put Needle through his neck, just like he did to Lommy."

"Right," Gendry tried once more to avoid imagining that scene too clearly, "What were you doing at the Twins?"

Even in the firelight he could see that Arya's face had darkened dangerously. "The Hound wanted to sell me to my mother and brother. We were too late."

"Gods, Arya," Gendry breathed, "I'm sorry."

"You know what happened, then?"

"Everyone knows what happened. The Red Wedding, folks call it."

"So I've heard."

Arya's voice was too steady, too calm, and it sent chills up Gendry's neck. His thoughts drifted to the Red Witch and bound hands and useless struggles and the leeches and Stannis saying the names… He shuddered. "Arya…" he began, unsure what exactly he planned to say but needing to do something.

"They're dead now." Arya interrupted in the same mild tone.

Gendry winced. _The Usurper Robb Stark._ "I know, I'm sorry — "

"Not Mother and Robb, the Freys. House Frey is dead." She turned to face him, the fury she had successfully kept out of her voice dancing in her eyes instead, "Leave one wolf alive and the sheep are never safe. That was old Walder's mistake. He died like the cowardly cocksucker he was."

Gendry felt cold all over, despite the fire and ale. He'd have to tell her… "Arya," he began carefully, "The spell, the one the Red Witch did with my blood… She had Stannis throw the leeches into a fire and speak three names: Joffrey Baratheon, Balon Greyjoy and… and Robb Stark. I think I may have helped condemn your brother to death…"

Arya studied him impassively for a moment. "So you mean to tell me that three men styling themselves kings are killed during a war for the throne? And somehow that's magic?"

"But, my blood… The leeches…"

"You think too highly of yourself." Arya cut him off easily as she laid back on her bedroll and shifted in search of a comfortable position, "War doesn't care about blood, Gendry, it spills it all just the same."

The blacksmith felt a smile tug at his lips as some of the warmth returned to his body. "Thank you."

Arya snorted. "Don't flatter yourself, go to sleep."

This time, Gendry allowed the smile to form in earnest. "As My Lady commands," he teased softly, settling down on his side and closing his eyes. He was just beginning to drift off to sleep when Arya spoke again.

"And to think, all this time I should have been calling you My Prince."

Gendry groaned. "Arry…"

"How might I be of service, Your Grace?"

"Shut up."

"As My Prince commands."

Gendry could hear the smirk in her voice and had to fight back the urge to laugh. Maybe the snarky little shit he'd come to care for was still in there after all? He certainly hoped so. "I've missed you, Arya," he murmured into the darkness.

"Me too."


	5. THE QUEEN OF SINS

**THE QUEEN OF SINS**

Daenerys I

If the wind held, they would reach Dragonstone within the next turn of the moon. Despite the growing chill in the air, Daenerys had not moved from her place at the bow of her personal ship since she'd heard the news. Against all logic, she continued to strain her eyes for even the slightest hint of the home she'd never seen. A glimpse would make it real. Within the moon, it would be tangible and firmly in her grasp. The young queen suppressed a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold.

How long had she dreamt of this? How many years had she longed for a home she'd never known? And here she was, so close to the dream she'd adopted from her brother a lifetime ago. The realization surprised her; she rarely thought of Viserys these days and hadn't for some time. Unbidden, his face swam before her, white-haired and lilac-eyed and the only link to home she'd had for her first sixteen years. She wondered just when within that time his dream had become her own…

A loud cry drew her eyes upward. Her children were restless. When news of their impending arrival at Dragonstone had reached her, she had summoned representatives from each of her allies to join her in firming up a plan for their landing. The dragons had spent the morning circling the ship and diving as close as they dared to watch the pilgrimage of Lord and Ladies arriving from other ships. Not for the first time, Daenerys wished she knew just what they were thinking.

As she watched, Drogon and Viserion squabbled over a mangled carcass that had once been a dolphin while Rhaegal snapped lazily at the sails of a nearby ship. She considered it a testament to the Ironborn sailors aboard the vessel that they seemed wholly unconcerned with the dragon's antics. Another cry signalled Drogon's success at poaching the dolphin off his brother and drew a sigh from their mother.

Her dream could wait a while longer. It was time to be a queen.

Daenerys turned and made her way toward the stern of the ship without another moment's hesitation. It was a relief to finally duck below deck and out of the wind, and she took a moment to straighten her appearance before stepping into the captain's quarters which she had taken for herself. As it was the largest and most spacious cabin aboard the vessel, it was there that Daenerys had chosen to host the meeting. The room was sparsely furnished yet comfortable, and the large table in the centre of the space served the purpose of their gathering well. Someone — Lord Tyrion, no doubt — had ensured that there were drinks aplenty which seemed well received by most of the guests.

A quick glance around the gathered faces was enough to remind Daenerys that while these people had all sworn fealty to her, she had met only a handful of them in person thus far. Yara Greyjoy was one such familiar face, spread out as comfortably as any man in her chair with a drink in hand as she conversed with an olive-skinned woman Daenerys did not recognize but realized must be a representative from Dorne. Two of her Dothraki bloodriders were seated at Yara's elbow and making no effort to disguise their leers while her brother, Theon, sat rigid and uncomfortable at his sister's other side. She tried not to think too much about how familiar that scene felt, albeit with the siblings' roles reversed and markedly less killing than had taken place at her wedding to Drogo.

Searching the room again in an attempt to distract herself from that unnecessary thought, the young queen's eyes found Missandei speaking with — or rather, being spoken too — by an elderly woman who could only be Olenna Tyrell. Daenerys did not have to hear the exchange to know that Lady Olenna felt strongly about it. Although, if what Lord Tyrion had told her about the Lady of Highgarden was true, then she felt strongly about most things. Grey Worm hovered just behind Missandei, obviously trying to free her from the conversation with very little success.

Off to one side of the cabin Lord Tyrion and the Spider, Varys, stood together and were clearly making use of the opportunity to study the group, just as she was. She pointedly ignored the eunuch in favour of catching her Hand's eye as he gave her a grim smile. If asked, Daenerys would blame the slight flutter of nerves which made themselves known in her chest entirely on Tyrion's expression.

Schooling her demeanour into something more appropriate for someone of her station, Queen Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen stepped forward into the fray.

Conversation quieted immediately.

"My Lords and Ladies," Missandei's voice broke the silence, polished and precise as always, "You are in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, the rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, The rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Princess of Dragonstone, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons."

"Thank you all for joining me," Daenerys addressed the room at large, moving to stand at the head of the table, "It is an honour to meet all of you in person at last."

Missandei, who had all but materialized at her elbow, translated the sentiment into Dothraki and Valyrian respectively without prompting. It was just one of countless reasons the former slave was invaluable to her.

"Well, that's certainly quite the mouthful." Olenna Tyrell observed almost before Missandei had finished speaking, her tone just shy of condescending, "But I imagine they all mean something to you."

Tyrion cleared his throat as he approached the table, obviously intending to soothe egos before things could go any further. "Your Grace, may I present Lady Olenna Tyrell of Highgarden. It is thanks to her generosity that we have so much of the Reach sworn to you."

Daenerys eyed Olenna, who met her gaze calmly, before addressing her Hand. "I gathered as much. A pity then, that as Lady Paramount, she could not secure the Reach as a whole."

"Dorne, as a whole, is yours, Your Grace." It was one of the younger Dornish women, a pretty little thing with cropped hair who Daenerys had not noticed before, who spoke up from the back of the room, "It is the Sand Snakes' honour to have secured it for y — "

Lady Olenna sighed. "Oh my dear, are you _still_ talking?" She flicked a dismissive hand in the general direction of the Dornish girl, her gaze never leaving the Queen, "If my contributions are not to your liking, Your Grace, I will happily return to Highgarden and live out the rest of my days in comfort."

Daenerys squared her shoulders and made to reply, but it seemed that Lady Tyrell was not yet finished.

"You young, ambitious little things, you must understand one thing; my House is dead. I have nothing to lose and nothing to gain but my own satisfaction. Your politics and petty one-upmanship mean nothing to me."

Daenerys was reminded abruptly of Daario, but she pushed the thought away before it could settle. It was not in her nature to look to the past with such frequency as she had today and she found herself forced to admit, if only in the safety of her own mind, that perhaps she was becoming more on edge the closer she came to the dream she'd taken as her own.

"And you two," Lady Olenna was still going, her gaze now shifted to Theon and Yara Greyjoy who had been watching the posturing with trepidation and amusement respectively, "Nothing to add?"

"What we have to offer, we brought," Yara said blandly, "Any other Ironborn have followed a '_big cock_' and will die just as well as anyone else."

Another young Dornish woman, this one much harsher looking than the one standing next to her, snorted as she looked Theon up and down.

Yara smirked as she caught the look. "Not his," she clarified, "Don't get excited."

Theon ducked his head, his cheeks flushed with shame. The Dothraki men laughed, and Daenerys realized that Missandei had kept up her translations for them throughout the conversation. Her bloodriders seemed taken with Lady Greyjoy, if the ever-present leers were anything to go by.

"Perhaps we should return to the matter at hand," the older Dornish woman sitting across from Yara suggested, pointedly.

Her younger kinsmen didn't seem pleased but stood down all the same, melting back into the shadows of the cabin with a level of skill that seemed at odds with their bravado. Daenerys frowned and made a mental note to find out more about these 'Sand Snakes.' Noticing the smirk Yara Greyjoy tossed her bloodriders' way, she made another note to keep the Ironborn and the Dothraki far apart for everyone's well being.

"Not quite yet." Lord Tyrion's voice was soft but Daenerys caught the edge of something sharp and dangerous carefully buried beneath the surface of the tone. "Your Grace, this is Ellaria Sand. Do not let her imply that she is above such pettiness. While I am grateful for her support, along with that of the Sand Snakes, this is the woman who murdered my niece for the crime of being related to a woman who secured a champion who killed her lover in a trial by combat for which her lover volunteered."

The cabin fell silent save for Tyrion's harsh breathing and Missandei's quick, quiet translations.

Ellaria Sand met her accuser's gaze without flinching. "I took vengeance in the name of Prince Oberyn of the House Martell — "

"You killed an innocent child!"

"She was a Lannister."

"She was so much more than that! And you — "

"That's enough." Daenerys didn't raise her voice, but it was an order all the same, "Lord Tyrion, stand down. Ellaria Sand, you confess to killing this child — "

"Myrcella," Tyrion interjected quietly.

It was the sadness in his voice that kept her from reprimanding him for speaking out of turn. "Myrcella," she amended instead, "In retribution for Prince Oberyn's death?"

Ellaria raised her chin. "I will not apologize."

"And nor should you," Lady Olenna agreed, "War is no time for sentiment. The girl was a bastard, she's of more value dead."

Tyrion's hands were balled into shaking fists at his side, but a look from his Queen kept him quiet for the moment.

Daenerys took a deep breath and considered her options. She was fond of Lord Tyrion, as much as she allowed herself to be fond of anyone, and she had come to rely on his counsel. She had named him Hand of the Queen for a reason and she certainly trusted his judgement, however she was nowhere near hypocritical enough to suggest she had never condoned killing as a means of retribution. The fact that this Myrcella was seemingly innocent was unfortunate. The fact that she was someone her Hand cared about was even more so. In the end, the girl would likely have had to die regardless to solidify her claim to the Throne. Bastard or not, she had still carried the Usurper's name. Not that she would ever say as much to Lord Tyrion.

"I do not condone your actions," she said at last, "But nor will I condemn you for them. What is done, is done. We move forward, together, and when I take the Seven Kingdoms, I will create a world where children are no longer bought and traded as commodities in war."

"Akka hash kisha lajat jin vaes, hash mori vo zafra?" _**[1]**_

Daenerys looked to her bloodriders coldly at the comment. "Kisha tikh vo vasterat ki jin ajjin," _**[2]**_ she told them shortly. She couldn't help but notice that Missandei had chosen not to translate any of the Dothraki back to Common Tongue. It was likely the right choice.

Truthfully, it was a conversation she dreaded having. Integrating the Dothraki into the society she wanted to build was one of the many topics she and her advisors had been debating on the voyage thus far. She was beginning to realize that the greatest challenge of her life would not be taking the Throne, as she had always assumed, but rather what came afterward.

"Your Grace, if I might make a suggestion?"

And of course it would be the one person she was trying to ignore who would break the strained silence. Perfect. "Speak your mind, Lord Varys," she sighed.

The eunuch bowed his head and stepped forward a few paces. "We are many people who have fought and lost at each other's hands, and yet we have come together in service of our Queen. I suggest postponing this meeting until we have, all of us, had the opportunity to air our grievances and concerns in private. We gain nothing by fighting among ourselves."

_Damn that Spider and his sweet words, _Daenerys thought as she watched Tyrion deflate beside her, but she could not deny that he was right. If she had any chance of leading her people forward, the past would have to be addressed. "A wise suggestion," she admitted stiffly, "I thank you all for coming, I dismiss this meeting."

There was some general shuffling and glancing about before the group began to disperse. Ellaria Sand gathered her younger countryman and left without looking back. The Dothraki men managed to cajole Yara — and by extension Missandei and Theon, although neither of them looked like they wanted to be there — into joining them for a drink. Grey Worm hurried after them, barking orders over his shoulder to his fellow Unsullied as he went. Tyrion downed a cup of wine.

"You've got your work cut out for you with this lot," Olenna Tyrell stood up only when most of the crowd had cleared out, "Let's see if you're the dragon you think you are."

The young queen bristled, but Lady Olenna was gone before she could respond. Varys made to follow her out, but Daenerys cleared her throat.

"Not you." She couldn't quite interpret the look the eunuch gave her upon turning around, but she knew it made her skin prickle uncomfortably. Still she plowed ahead, refusing to give the not-man the satisfaction of her discomfort. "You suggested airing our grievances in private, did you not?"

Varys studied her openly. "I did, Your Grace."

"And surely you are aware of my issues with you?"

"I am."

"Very well," the young queen closed the distance between them with as much poise as was expected from a monarch, "How do you suggest we rectify them."

"Your Grace," Lord Tyrion spoke up suddenly, "Lord Varys is not, nor has he ever been, your enemy — "

"For twenty years, my entire life, this man oversaw the campaign to find and kill me." Daenerys reminded him, anger colouring her voice at last.

"And for those same twenty years he was also the one ensuring you stayed ahead of those very assassins," her Hand fired back, "We've discussed this. The world isn't good and bad, it isn't black and white and it's never simple. Lord Varys is many things, Your Grace, and he has done many things, but he does not condemn children for their family's crimes."

Daenerys fumed. How _dare_ he? How many children had she freed from a life in chains? How many nameless, forgotten children had she seen properly buried? And how many Masters had died in retribution for their deaths? But somewhere beneath the righteous anger burning through her, a seed of doubt tried to take root. "Nor do I," she ground out.

Lord Tyrion took a deep breath as he visibly composed himself. "Let's see that we keep it that way."

* * *

_**1\. **And when we take a city, are they not slaves?_

_**2\. **We will not speak of this now._


	6. THE SHROUDS OF GOLD

**THE SHROUDS OF GOLD**

Jaime I

Jaime had been denied the chance to see his son's body. Cersei had seen him burned and buried without ceremony on the very day of his death. She hadn't even seen fit to send a raven. Not that a raven would have been of much use seeing as he had reached the Capital only two days after Tommen had left the world and just in time to watch his twin take a seat on that damned throne. The image had been like stepping back through time to a time when he was still golden-haired and unmaimed and proud, a time when he himself had been found slumped on that same throne and stained by a deed he would never explain…

That stain mocked him now. _Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. A man without honour._ He should have searched out Aerys' cursed stashes of wildfire himself back when he had the chance, then perhaps she wouldn't have…

But she would have, that was the problem.

When he'd seen that smoke drifting in the breeze above King's Landing he had felt many things; horror, dread, sadness and anger, but not surprise. No, there had been no surprise, and it was _that_ which surprised him. He wondered just how long he'd known, somewhere deep in his heart, that his other half was capable of such an act?

He'd tried to pinpoint the moment, obsessed over it even, while he had quietly organized all the remaining caches of Wildfire smuggled out of King's Landing. Had it been the day their mother died, perhaps, when he'd first seen the loathing he could never fully understand twisting her beautiful face? Had it been the day their father sat them down, still knobby kneed and damn near indistinguishable from one another, and laid out the vastly different courses their lives would take? He had never forgotten the moment the stutters closed behind her gaze; he'd spent the next thirty years trying for just one more peek at the girl they locked away. In the end, all this obsession had done was yield an even more unsettling question. What if that girl he remembered had existed nowhere but in his own mind?

Bronn was talking, but then Bronn was always talking and Jaime had long since grown accustomed to blocking him out. He'd shut up briefly at the sight of the Sept, but not even mass slaughter had been able to keep the sellsword quiet long. He'd cursed a strip off Cersei all the way to the Red Keep and Jaime had found himself too numb to even attempt to stop him. The man's sense of self preservation was strong though, and he'd held his tongue any time his words may have found their way back to his sister's ears.

"You listenin' to a word I'm sayin'?"

"No." Jaime didn't bother to deny his disinterest. Bronn had pulled his horse up beside him at the head of the formation. A breach of proper procedure, yes, but neither unexpected nor irregular by this point…

"I was sayin' we should be careful with our approach — "

_Gods, he was tired._

The thought pushed the sellsword's voice aside like smoke invading a room. He hadn't always been, he knew that, but for the love of him he could not remember just when the feeling had taken up residence deep in his very bones. Perhaps this was how Tommen had felt in his final moments? Exhausted in a way that no amount of sleep seemed to touch…

Oh, Cersei hadn't told him how their youngest had died, but he knew. Even without the snide remarks and accusations hissed from shadowed corners of the city, he knew. Joffrey had been all Cersei's and Myrcella as well, although in a different way, but Tommen… No one begrudged a second-born son time spent with his uncle.

_Uncles,_ he corrected himself, Tyrion had always loved his niece and nephew. The way he used to make them laugh, their grins as he told them secret stories his sister would never have allowed… Jaime could hate his brother through and through for what he did to their father (and by extension, Cersei) but he would never hate those memories. He wondered if Tyrion knew what had happened to those innocent children? Wherever his brother was in the world, Jaime wondered if there was anyone to tell him.

"Send for a raven when we make camp for the night," he instructed Bronn abruptly. His request was met with silence and he turned to look at the sellsword for the first time. There was an odd look on the older man's face, Jaime would have almost thought it was sympathy if he believed that Bronn was capable of such a feeling or that he were worthy of warranting it.

"I wrote him before we rode out. Didn't figure your sister would."

Jaime could only stare at him.

"Your brother, I mean," Bronn elaborated with a shrug, "He was always goin' on about those kids."

Something clenched so tightly in Jaime's chest that it stole his breath away for a moment. _Pain,_ he realized, and the thought damn near made him laugh. The mighty Kingslayer, brought to his knees by sadness. Joffrey would have found it hilarious, and likely would have added it to that damned book as his one and only noble deed — dying like a fucking woman.

"Jaime."

The knight looked up, his own name cutting through the noise in his head.

Bronn was glaring at him. "Get your shit together. We're into the Riverlands now, we need to be alert."

Heaving a sigh, Jaime pulled himself straighter in the saddle and tried to clear his head. _Godsdamned Riverlands. Godsdamned useless Freys._ They'd only been there to clean up their mess a month ago, and yet it seemed they'd fucked up again. "You really think there's something to Qyburn's rumours?"

"Rumour's got to start somewhere, can't say I'm keen to meet whatever started this one."

Jaime frowned. "House Frey is more than one hundred men strong," he mused, "Perhaps someone finally offed old Walder, but to slaughter the entire House would be…"

"Mighty impressive," Bronn smirked, "You sure there ain't any Starks left?"

"Just Sansa Stark and the bastard up north," Jaime replied with far less amusement than the sellsword.

Bronn looked almost disappointed, as though the thought of the Freys reaping what they sowed at the hands of a wayward Stark was something he could get behind. Jaime ignored him. The Red Wedding was hardly a more pleasant topic to consider than his previous line of thinking, just more honourless slaughter. He remembered Joffrey's utter joy at the news, his father's quiet pride, Tyrion's horror, and the self-satisfied smirk Cersei had worn for days (when she wasn't eyeing his stump with distaste.) Perhaps that was the moment he knew…

"So, are you running or did she put you out?"

_Fucking, Bronn._ "Aren't you the one who believes the rumours we're here to investigate?" Jaime snapped.

The sellsword wasn't fazed. "Running, then."

"I am not — " Jaime began harshly, but reined himself in. Bronn didn't know. He couldn't know. Only Tyrion and Brienne knew the truth of that day, only they would understand why he _couldn't _stay… "We are following our Queen's orders to investigate rumours of a massacre and violence in the Riverlands, and that's the end of it."

The sellsword gave him a look Jaime couldn't be bothered to decipher and a mock bow. "And the barrels of wildfire we're haulin' all over the bloody country?"

Jaime didn't dignify that with a response. He should never have told the older man what was in those barrels. The increased risk of a fiery death would have been almost worth it to keep him quiet.

Bronn rolled his eyes, clearly sensing the dismissal and actually acquiescing for once. He slowed his horse to rejoin the rest of the formation behind them, whistling the tune to the _Rains Of Castamere _jauntily as he did so.


	7. THE CROW FLIES NORTH

**THE CROW FLIES NORTH**

Jon II

It was snowing again, as it had been for almost a full moon now. Even with the tireless work of Winterfell's residents to clear away the snow and transport it beyond the outer walls or to see it melted into drinking water, the ground was still blanketed with several inches of fresh fall. Their last well had frozen solid the week prior and with the ever growing number of people arriving in Winterfell a limit on firewood consumption had already been put in place. As yet, all the roofs were holding fast, but they would have to be managed carefully as the weight of fallen snow took its toll. Jon knew that the outer building had taken more than their share of damage over the past few years and their ability to withstand winter as they were designed would, therefore, be limited. Then there was the need for ample latrine pits to be dug before the ground froze to the point of impenetrably…

Jon sighed as he trudged across Winterfell's frozen courtyard. Some days he honestly couldn't fathom why anyone would want to rule.

But then, some people did seem able to thrive under the weight of responsibilities and logistics, and one such person was the woman he was searching for. He found his sister in the glass gardens examining the stunted sprouts the gardener had managed to get started before this latest freeze. Her back was to him, and he took a moment to marvel at the incredible woman the vapid little girl from his childhood had grown into. _Her mother would be proud,_ he thought, and he knew with certainty that their father would be.

Stepping fully into the glass garden, he cleared his throat to announce his presence. "Will they mature?"

Sansa turned to face him with a curiously closed off expression creasing her face, but blinked it away before Jon could pinpoint the emotion behind it. "Cauller thinks so. It will be a limited crop, but he seems impressed with the suggestions the free folk gave him."

"Good," Jon nodded before shifting the subject to the reason he had sought her out, "Baelish came to speak with me earlier."

"I know."

Somehow that didn't surprise him, although the fact that Littlefinger had come to him rather than his sister certainly had and the news he brought even more so. "He says the Freys are dead."

Something of his disbelief must have shown on his face because Sansa frowned. "You think he's wrong?" she asked.

"You don't?"

"He rarely is."

Jon swallowed the decidedly un-kingly scoff that sought to escape at his sister's words. "And yet he sold you to the Boltons."

Sansa sighed as she fingered one of the sprouts in the raised bed beside her. "And you wonder if he was wrong about Ramsay? Or about selling me? Or both, perhaps?"

"Was he?" Jon asked sharply. If Baelish had known about what Ramsay was when he traded Sansa away like some shiny little trinket he would murder the man himself, the allegiance of the Vale be damned…

"It hardly matters now."

Jon stared at his sister in disbelief, but her expression was still frigid and so he chose not to argue. "So you believe him," he said instead.

Sansa shrugged and flicked the dirt from her fingers before turning to him once more. "In this instance, yes."

"And what do you propose we do about it?"

"Nothing."

Jon blinked. "Nothing?" he repeated.

Sansa gave him that indistinguishable expression again. "You've already called the Northern Houses and the Houses of the Vale to Winterfell, they're bringing what resources they have with them and destroying the lands they leave behind. Whatever may or may not be happening in the Riverlands, it would be suicide for it to come North. As, I believe, was the point of the summons?"

"Yes," Jon admitted. She was correct, of course, but if they were to believe Baelish's report then an entire House had just been slaughtered. When he'd given the order to gather his people at Winterfell and leave nothing behind his reasoning had been to ease the burden of keeping everyone fed and sheltered through winter, and to make it near impossible for Cersei to attack from the South without bringing unreasonably large stores of food and heat with her. He hadn't meant for it to keep them protected from forces as near as the Riverlands… "But I confess I hadn't expected the orders to be followed so thoroughly." And that was true as well. He'd expected people to be far more resistant to leaving their homes and livelihoods behind, yet most were obliging without complaint and their pilgrimage was progressing much faster than he'd foreseen.

"You're their King, Jon," Sansa replied with the tone of someone explaining something very simple to a particularly dim child, "And the people respect you, of course they obeyed."

Jon frowned. "The people, but not you?"

"I respect you, I just think you're an idiot."

"Sansa…" Jon racked his brain for anything he might have done to upset his sister. They'd been getting on so well of late… Perhaps this was coming from his decision to travel to the Wall? "If this is about me going north, you saw the letter from Edd — that is, from Lord Commander Tollet — I have to go. Edd and Tormund are the first line of defence against — "

"The Dragon Queen?"

_Ah. Well, fuck._ He'd planned on telling her, truly he had, but the right moment had never presented itself… "How do you…?"

Sansa laughed coldly. "You go on nonstop about how only fire can kill these '_wights,_' and how we need more allies. You have us building trenches to be set alight around Winterfell's exterior wall and throughout the encampments being built beyond it. You have oil being stockpiled within the Keep, and no one has seen Ser Davos in over a month. It's not a difficult leap."

"Sansa…" he interjected warily. His sister was angry, yes, but she was reasonable. She would understand his reasons…

But Sansa paid him no mind. "She's a _Targaryen,_ Jon." she snapped, "She has three grown dragons. She can burn the North to rubble and there is nothing we can do to stop her! And you _invite_ her here!?"

A hot surge of anger cut through him unexpectedly. Why could no one see? This wasn't about a throne. _Gods,_ this wasn't even about surviving winter. The situation was so, _so_ much more dire than that. "Then at least we die warm!" he fired back, "I don't know this Daenerys Targaryen, I don't know if she's a friend or foe, but I do know that the dead are coming and what we have right now can't stop them! I know they can't be reasoned with. I know they can't be bought. I know they can't be outmanoeuvred. We need help if we hope to survive, and I'd much rather take my chances with the Dragon Queen than Cersei Lannister."

His sister didn't back down, but then she rarely did these days. "So you'd bend the knee, just as Torrhen Stark did? You'd submit our people to another foreign ruler who will burn them for sport?"

"You underestimate the North, Sansa," Jon sighed, the fight leaving him as quickly as ever. He'd never been able to hold on to anger like his siblings could. "And me, it seems. I may not have wanted the crown, but I have no intention of relinquishing it to anyone other than you."

That set her on the back foot somewhat, and her next words carried markedly less bite. "An alliance, then?" she translated, "That's what you hope for? How? We have nothing to offer."

"We will, if she chooses to come North. Daenerys Targaryen has never set foot in Westeros, she's never experienced our climate, and she certainly doesn't know from winter. Half her army has never seen snow, let alone fought and survived in it. The only ones who have are those from the Reach and Iron Islands, and they still don't know the snows like we do. Winter is here, Sansa. That's what we have."

Sansa looked decidedly unimpressed. "That and the dead, apparently."

And it was at that moment that Jon realized. "You don't believe me." The words were soft, and he couldn't be bothered to mask the hurt that slipped out.

"I do believe you, Jon," Sansa sighed, "I do. I believe that you believe in what you're saying. But I worry that you're so focused on the dead and only the dead, and if it's not the threat you think it is…"

Jon's chest was behaving oddly, contracting in that tight and painful way a body reacts to freezing water and stealing his breath away. "They built the bloody Wall to keep the White Walkers and their army out, how much more of a threat do you want them to be? I don't see any walls built to keep dragons out, nor lions for that matter," He was essentially pleading now, he knew that, but he didn't care. They had been doing _so well_. "You could come with me," he suggested, desperately, "Come to the Wall and see for yourself…"

"There must always be a Stark in Winterfell."

The all too familiar feeling of a knife plunging between his ribs and into his chest cut any remaining fight out of him. She was right. Of course, she was right. And he was no Stark. He'd always accepted that truth, so why did it hurt now?

"And someone needs to be here to handle your Dragon Queen should she arrive without the intention to turn us all to ash," Sansa continued.

But Jon wasn't listening. He turned away from his sister and raised a hand to his chest, rubbing at it in a halfhearted attempt to loosen the pressure building there. "Of course…"

"Jon, I didn't mean it like that — "

Sansa's voice faded behind him as the Bastard of Winterfell stalked back the way he had come.

* * *

Jon was in conversation with three of the younger heads of Houses later that evening when Brienne sought him out. It was Alys Karstark who noticed Sansa's sworn shield first and stumbled over which title to address her by. Jon took pity on the girl and performed the necessary introductions himself while Lyanna Mormont took in her knightly attire with undisclosed respect and poor little Ned Umber simply stared up at her looking every bit the boy he was. Jon dismissed the children promptly and gestured for Brienne to walk with him out onto the ramparts. She obeyed without a word.

The wind had picked up earlier as the sun had set and snow swirled around them as they stepped outside. Brienne kept pace well for someone who had not grown up with ice underfoot, and for a time they walked in silence.

It was Brienne who finally spoke, her voice clear even in the wind. "Your Grace, Lady Sansa has requested that I pass along a message on her behalf."

Jon paused and turned to rest his elbows on the stone wall as he stared out into the darkness. He didn't reply, but inclined his head to indicate that he was listening. He was not so petty as to deny his sister that. More than that, he realized his reaction had, perhaps, been a tad excessive.

"Lady Sansa stands by her position but would like me to assure you that she meant her final comment as nothing more than a reminder that it would be unwise for both of you to leave the castle unattended. She hopes you will join her to continue the discussion," Brienne relayed with her usual efficiency.

The darkness beyond the reach of Winterfell's fires seemed to shift tauntingly. The dead were out there, waiting in the black, and no one believed him… Jon sighed, "Thank you, Brienne. Please inform Sansa that I will speak to her in the morning."

"At once, Your Grace," she bowed.

At least, Jon assumed she bowed. She seemed the type. Still, he did not look away from the encroaching darkness, trusting Brienne to find her own way back indoors. The biting wind was oddly grounding, and he allowed his eyes to slip closed as he breathed in deeply. The wounds in his chest stretched uncomfortably beneath the binding Sansa had secured in place a few nights previously, but the icy air numbed some of the pain, and he repeated the action a few more times.

"Your Grace?"

Jon very nearly startled when Brienne's voice cut through his moment of peace, but suppressed the reaction in time. Turning, he noted that the lady knight was still standing where he had last seen her, a few paces behind him and off to the side. Her face bore an air of uncertainty, or perhaps she just didn't find the winter wind as calming as he did.

"I can only assume that your desire to return to the Wall was the cause of your disagreement with your sister," Brienne continued, obviously watching for any indication that her words were overstepping her position, "If I might make a suggestion? Perhaps it would be wise to take a small delegation with you to see the situation for themselves? I would gladly send Podrick as a representative of Lady Sansa and myself."

Jon blinked. That was quite a good thought. If he could show the major Houses what the Brothers of The Night's Watch were up against — what they were _all_ up against — and get them on side it would certainly make explaining his decision to parley with Daenerys Targaryen easier to explain when it inevitably came to light. "Your suggestion is appreciated," he told Brienne honestly, "Thank you."

This time, his earlier suspicions were confirmed as Brienne bowed politely in reply before leaving him to the dark and the wind.


	8. THE LADY WOLF

**THE LADY WOLF**

Sansa II

Despite his disappointment at Winterfell's lack of a Moon Door, Sansa finally managed to amuse her cousin with a walk along the castle's outermost bailey. Robin seemed perfectly content to waste the afternoon away by running, or rather slipping, between the embrasures and leaning out to drop snowballs more than one hundred feet to the frozen ground far below. The heir to the Vale had arrived the night before along with the rest of House Royce, with whom he had been fostered since his mother's death, and already he was trying Sansa's patience. She and Lord Baelish followed a few paces behind him, offering encouraging smiles when appropriate and otherwise talking quietly, trusting the icy wind to swallow up their words.

"I imagine you're pleased to have at least some of your vision back now that the people of the Vale have arrived in full," Sansa surmised as she matched steps with her mentor.

Petyr gave her a knowing smile. "I had taken the liberty of cultivating some sightlines here, but yes, I am glad of the return to full sight. I imagine you see quite well this far North, my Lady."

Sansa thought of the young serving girls whose needlework she complimented regularly and the boys tasked with transporting the cleared snow beyond the castle walls who blushed when she gave them an extra smile in passing and arranged her face in a frown rather than the smile that wanted to form. "I'm afraid I wouldn't know where to start," she sighed, "I trust I can rely on your consul in that respect?"

"Of course."

Littlefinger didn't believe her, they both knew that, but what else could he do? Sansa knew he would never do anything to jeopardize his place by her side, even if that meant playing the fool. So long as she played her role, he was trapped in his.

The lull in conversation afforded the Lady of Winterfell the opportunity to gaze out over the growing settlement beyond their walls, which her cousin was happily pelting with snow. They had housed as many people as they could within Winterfell's borders, but the crowd had quickly spilled out into the frozen lands beyond. Thankfully, Jon had managed to procure instructions from the free folk on how to turn the now never-ending snowfall into shelters capable of seeing a family safely through winter. From this height, the new settlement reminded her of the little replica of Winterfell she had built in the snow back at the Eyrie. Tightly packed mounds of snow with a modest living space carved out of them stretched out in rows as far as the eye could see to the south of the castle, from the King's Road to the east to the Wolf's Wood to the west.

Sansa had visited one of the snowhomes herself and found it to be surprisingly well insulated and markedly more comfortable than a tent. According to the free folk, and Jon, these domes were often constructed out of blocks of ice cut from frozen lakes or sea, but the labour required to do that was more than Sansa had been willing to put out. House Stark would provide snowhomes to those they had ordered to abandon their homes — the snow needed clearing from within and around the castle walls, as it was — but should the new arrivals want a larger ice dome for a home, they would need to build it themselves. And some were, Sansa noted, as she scanned the settlement below and watched a group of men pulling several enormous blocks of ice out of the Wolf's Wood.

Songs would surely sing of a united North rising up on winter's offerings, but Sansa had left her singing voice in King's Landing what seemed like a lifetime ago. In truth, they were standing naked as a newborn babe in the throes of winter's wrath. Even without Jon's undead army marching to slaughter them all, the North was woefully unprepared. The snowhomes provided a reprieve for their wood stores and allowed those stores to be put toward heat rather than construction, but that did nothing to aid their food supplies. The frigid reality was that there were simply too many mouths to feed for any significant length of time, even with the strict rationing she had helped Jon put in place before he left.

"Our King seemed quite eager to put Winterfell behind him," Baelish mused, his voice returning her to the present just in time to watch Robin push an unfortunate lookout aside to let fly another armful of snowballs.

Sansa took a deep breath and pushed away the image dancing in her mind's eyes of scaled wings sailing overhead and stealing away the last of Winterfell's light, as she cursed her brother mentally. Ser Davos' raven, written in a halting hand, had arrived that morning stating he was safely in position at Dragonstone and the Dragon Queen's armada was within sight. The news had done nothing to improve her moon, even before Robin had begun driving her mad, and now Littlefinger was digging… That was almost worse than the Targaryen girl and her damned dragons. "Another war is imminent, my Lord, and it is a King's duty to ensure his people are prepared." _You owe me more than you know, Jon_…

"Yes," Baelish smiled at Robin as the boy grinned at them between aerial assaults on the snowhomes below, "The Army of the Dead."

The even tone caught Sansa by surprise. There was no mocking undertone, no second meaning that she could detect… If she didn't know Baelish as she did, she would almost say he _believed_… "Yes," she replied, matching his tone to the best of her ability, "Jon and the Night's Watchmen have been fighting them for some time, their knowledge will be instrumental in our survival."

Littlefinger drew to a stop, causing Sansa to do the same, and gave her a shrewd look. "You don't believe in your brother's war."

Refusing to be cowed, Sansa held her ground. "Nor do you."

"Quite the contrary," Baelish reached out and took her gloved hands in his own, "I've always believed in monsters."

Sansa studied their interlocked fingers as she gave herself a moment to understand exactly what Littlefinger was saying. Despite what she had just implied to her mentor, and what Jon so clearly feared, she did believe that a threat loomed north of the Wall. She wasn't sure that she could fully comprehend the living death her brother described, but she knew it must exist for him to believe in it so fiercely. Her fear lay in the fact that while Jon focused solely on that one enemy, many more were already within Winterfell's walls and Jon himself had invited another to their shores. Ruling wasn't fighting one battle at a time, she had learned that the hard way, and she was loathed to let her brother learn as she had. Even after what his own men had done to him, Jon still believed in people. She feared it would get him killed again, this time for good.

"We should return to the castle, My Lady,"

Baelish's voice interrupted her thoughts once again, and Sansa realized that she had been silent entirely too long. Gathering herself quickly, she offered him a gentle smile. "Yes, I suppose so," she agreed, even as she cobbled together a plan in her head. Something to distract him. Something to get his mind away from her brother… Lowering her gaze just so, she feigned sudden insecurity, "Lord Baelish?" The look he gave her was expected, and she allowed herself to make the obvious correction, "Petyr. I was wondering if, perhaps, you could assist me in locating my sister?"

"Sansa," somehow her name sounded both longing and smug when said in his voice, "Your sister has been presumed dead for many years now."

The Lady of Winterfell gave a slight chuckle and looked up to meet her mentor's gaze. "If anyone can survive on their own all these years, it's Arya," she told him, before quickly dropping eye contact again. "And, Lady Brienne informed me recently that she came across Arya not two years ago while searching for me in the Vale. She seemed to be travelling with Sandor Clegane, but when Brienne killed Clegane, Arya disappeared."

Baelish's eyes flashed with curiosity only briefly, and Sansa fought the smile that wanted to break free. Perhaps she could salvage something out of this yet.

Littlefinger gave her hands a squeeze before leaning forward and placing a chaste kiss on her cheek, ever mindful of the lookouts on the wall. "Then I will find her, my lady, and see her safely home once more."

Sansa forced an air of gratitude as Baelish turned away to inform Robin that they would be returning indoors. It quickly became apparent that the boy did not find the plan agreeable.

"Uncle Petyr, I don't want to go inside!" Robin whined, stomping his boots in the snow, "I want to make the snowmen fly!"

Sansa noticed one of the nearby lookouts snickering at the scene and silenced him with a glance.

"I'm not cold! I'm not going in! I'm Lord of the Vale, you have to listen to me!"

Fearing that she may join the scolded lookout in his laughter, Sansa began making her way back to the castle when Robin's shrill voice shouting her name gave her pause.

"Lady Sansa isn't my Mummy and you're not my Daddy! I'm staying out here!"

Petyr turned back to her with a look of exasperation colouring his features while Robin continued his tirade behind him. Sansa caught those cunning eyes and was struck by the sudden need to get away from him, if only for a short time.

"I'll stay here with him a while longer," she offered, "I have no doubt he'll grow bored of this soon enough."

For the briefest of seconds, disappointment and relief flashed across Baelish's face in equal measure before he smiled at his protege. "If you're certain, My Lady, I'm sure your cousin would appreciate that very much."

Robin, for his part, seemed delighted. He hurried past his uncle without hesitation and grabbed Sansa by the hand, tugging her further down the wall. Only once Baelish disappeared into the distance did the boy slow to a more reasonable pace. As they both paused to catch their breath, Sansa took the time to look over the boy she'd first met suckling from his mother's breast. And truly, he was no longer a boy. Despite still being small and frail for his age, it was apparent that his body was trying valiantly to grow into a man. He had spots now. His throat bobbed when he spoke, and the childlike softness had left his face. It occurred to her that he would soon reach the age where he would be expected to take control of the Vale back from Littlefinger…

"You don't like me."

Sansa turned to her cousin sharply. "Robin — " she began, some mindless platitudes on her tongue even as she continued to consider the implications of his coming of age.

The boy shrugged off her response as he gathered loose snow between his hands. "It's alright, most people don't like me. Only Uncle Petyr does," he said calmly, his voice somehow fuller than it had been before, "I heard them talking when we were coming here, they think I'm going to die now that they can't make my medicine anymore. They seemed glad."

Sansa took a breath as she sought to rationalize the sudden change in the young Lord. "I don't know you," she said after a moment, not bothering to dissuade his notion that his own people wanted him dead. It was likely true.

Robin looked up from his newly fashioned snowball and the child was back once more. "Would you like to?" he asked, eagerly, "Only, I miss my family…"

Memories of a terrified, lonely child trapped in a foreign land and surrounded on every side by people who saw her only as a means to an end sent a shiver down Sansa's spine. Robin had to be the same age now as she had been while a hostage in King's Landing. Both freshly orphaned. Both so very vulnerable. Both so very, very alone. Petyr had saved her, saved her and used her and sold her into hell. And it was Petyr who had Robin now…

"I know I shouldn't have broken your Winterfell," the boy continued as he picked his snowball apart, "I miss my home so much now, so I'm sorry I broke yours."

_No,_ Sansa decided, this was one child Baelish would not sell off to suit his plans. This was one child who would be protected as she hadn't been. She would see to that. "It was an accident, Robin, I shouldn't have reacted like I did," she told him gently, "I was scared and lonely and I lashed out. I'm sorry, too."

Her cousin brightened at her words. "I tried to build the Eyrie last night," he admitted, "But I'm not very good… Do you, do you think you could help me?"

Sansa smiled back at him, determined. "I'd like that," she replied, "Why don't you show me where you're staying, and we can build it there?"

Robin grinned and grabbed her hand, tugging her off down the wall once more.


	9. THE ONION TIDE

**THE ONION TIDE**

Daenerys II

If she closed her eyes and focused only on the gentle jingling of the bells and the fingers raking her scalp, Daenerys could almost believe she was back in the warmth of the Dothraki Sea, safe in her husband's arms with their babe at her breast. _Rhaego. The stallion who would mount the world... _She could almost believe she had not cursed them both to death and herself to a life barren of the one thing she had been taught since childhood she was meant to do. But the rocking of the ship made certain that reality was never far off. That, and the distinct chill in the air.

She had given up wearing the Dothraki's traditional victory bells after her conquest of Meereen, choosing instead to decorate her braid in line with the styles of her more recent victories. Still, when Dragonstone had finally come into view earlier that afternoon, she had found herself longing for the culture that had first made her feel at home.

An unexpected tug at the braid being knotted at the nape of her neck distracted her from her thoughts. She had grown accustomed to Missandei's expert styling over the past few years, but with the former slave otherwise engaged with translator duties she had turned another set of hands. Ornela's fingers were far from sure. Even with her eyes closed, Daenerys could feel the woman's hesitation in the occasional tug or hesitant stroke of her hair. Still, the former Khaleesi was proving herself quite adept at Dothraki styling, and spending time with the other woman was something Daenerys tried to do with regularity, regardless. As Ornela was the representative for the dosh khaleen, and the only member of the Dothraki who enjoyed being on the poison water, the Queen had ample excuse to keep her close by.

Aside from her curiosity about the open sea, Ornela adhered strictly to the Dothraki way of life. If the High Priestess of the dosh khaleen had not identified her as Lhazareen, Daenerys would have assumed she was Dothraki by birth. It was clear that she had been well and truly indoctrinated into the Dothraki culture. When the Queen had attempted to inquire about her childhood, even in passing, the former Khaleesi had turned fearful and uncertain and fled her company at the first opportunity. It made sense, she supposed. What little she knew of Ornela's life among the Dothraki consisted of kidnapping, rape and violence. As such, she had set Missandei the task of reintroducing the Lhazareen language to Oorri Elle Nuura. Daenerys herself had made it a priority to perfect the pronunciation of the former Khaleesi's true name and, while the woman was still painfully insecure about embracing her own culture once more, using her proper name in private had brought a shy smile to her face each time.

In truth, the Lhazareen language was beautiful. It had a soft, lilting quality, and the accent and tone more closely resembled a flute than any words Daenerys was familiar with. It was, according to Missandei, the language of songs.

_When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves…_

The language of songs, yes, and spells.

A knock at her chamber door interrupted her brooding and Daenerys looked up. "Come."

The door opened to reveal Yara Greyjoy, looking windswept and damp from sea spray. "Your Grace," she inclined her head respectfully, "We will make landfall within the hour."

Despite herself, Daenerys felt her heart begin beating faster as nerves and excitement warred within her. "Very good," she replied, careful not to allow the emotions to show in her voice, "I will join the others on deck shortly."

Yara nodded her understanding but did not take her leave. "I wondered if I might have a word in private before we land."

The Queen did her best not to frown as she dismissed Ornela with a wave of her hand. The former Khaleesi tied the last braid off and slipped out of the room obediently. "Speak your mind, Lady Greyjoy."

"I am concerned there may be some misunderstanding of your intentions among your subjects."

No one could ever accuse Lady Greyjoy of mincing her words, Daenerys acknowledged. It was a trait she and Olenna Tyrell shared, and one she found truly refreshing.

"As I understand our agreement, the Ironborn will adhere to the laws of the Seven Kingdoms in return for your support and assistance in assuring my rule of the Iron Islands."

Daenerys did frown at that. She had the sense that she knew where Yara's concerns were heading… "That is correct."

"I fear, then, that your Dothraki subjects do not fully understand the implications of such adherence as they have surely reached a similar agreement."

The implication was clear, and Daenerys suspected that they both knew the truth would please no one. Losing the Ironborn now would be unfortunate, but bearable tactically now that they had served their purpose and guided the fleet safely to Dragonstone. No, the problem would be the effect on the rest of her forces' morale… "Thank you for bringing your concerns to me," the Queen replied at last, choosing her words with care, "I will see to it that the situation is clarified to them."

Yara smiled, seemingly satisfied with her response, but Daenerys remained suspicious and that suspicion only grew as the Ironborn continued to loiter in her doorway.

"Is there something else?"

"Yes," Yara replied, easily, "When my father rose up in a fool's rebellion against the crown and was promptly defeated, it cost my two elder brothers their lives. They were brutes, but they were the future of House Greyjoy and the people mourned them. When Ned Stark gave the order for my little brother to be taken from our home and held as a ward in Winterfell, the people were disheartened and shamed. When I was given command of my dead brother's ship, the people laughed." Stepping out of the shadow of the doorway, Yara approached her queen, "I was at the docks the day Theon returned home. I watched him step from the ship draped in finery foreign to the Iron Islands and pronounce himself as our prince. And I saw the people laugh at the clean, cocky boy who claimed to be their better."

Daenerys stood and stepped forward in her open right until the two women stood facing each other in the centre of the chamber, "Why are you telling me this?"

"I am telling you not to expect that people will respect you, Your Grace. I am telling you to make sure of it." Yara smiled. "Shall I accompany you above deck?"

"Yes, thank you, Lady Greyjoy."

* * *

It was Rhaegal who noticed the ship.

Dragonstone was now so close that she could swim to it should she choose to, a mass of black rock jutting out of the sea. While the sight captivated Daenerys and she drank in the sight of the castle — her birthplace — carved into the ancient stone; while Drogon and Viserion darkened the shores with their shadows as they explored the winds above their new home; while the Ironborns' songs of safe landings and wars to come were joined by the war cries of the Dothraki and Dornish alike; while Lord Tyrion and Varys joined Missandei, Yara and Theon Greyjoy at her side as they stood at the bow…

Rhaegal dove.

The ship was, in truth, little more than a boat. A single mast and sail with enough space aboard for two men, at most, that rocked wildly in the winds from the dragon's wings. Hidden in the island's shadow, it boasted no visible weapons and bore no identifying colours save for a single, faded banner near the bow. If Rhaegal had not reacted to its presence, Daenerys wouldn't have noticed it at all, but now that she had there was no denying that the little ship was heading directly towards them, heedless of the dragon above or the armada facing it.

The Queen was not the only one who had seen their attention drawn to the ship's approach, and shouts echoed across the water as the armada's lead ships came to attention with weapons drawn. Yara Greyjoy moved away from her side, barking orders to the neighbouring ships while Theon organized the Unsullied soldiers aboard their ship with surprising efficiency. Drogon and Viserion joined their brother in circling low overhead as they kept watch, their distrust pressing at the back of their mother's mind.

Obviously aware that they had been noticed, the lone figure aboard the ship raised a white banner alongside their previous one and began waving them down.

"I know that sigil," Lord Tyrion spoke up suddenly from her elbow as he squinted at the approaching ship, "It's the onion of House Seaworth."

Daenerys took a moment to run through the countless Westerosi Houses that Viserys had taught her during their youth, but came up empty. "I'm not familiar with any House Seaworth."

"That is hardly a surprise, Your Grace." It was Varys who spoke this time, eliciting the same feelings of wariness and irritation in his queen as he did during any interaction. "House Seaworth is a rather new House, only formed at the end of Robert Baratheon's rebellion."

Daenerys frowned, her eyes never leaving the boat. "Who do they serve?"

"Last I heard, Ser Davos Seaworth was serving as Hand to Stannis Baratheon," Tyrion replied, "I fought against him at the Battle of the Blackwater."

"My birds sang songs of King Stannis' defeat at the hands of Ramsay Bolton at Winterfell," Varys added, "But I fear there have been no further tidings from the North, save for rumours they have united beneath a new King."

The Queen's frown deepened. A slight gesture sent a group of Unsullied soldiers to assist the stranger aboard, despite the uncertain glances being sent her way by her advisors. To their credit, however, no one questioned her decision and instead they waited in silence until the Unsullied hauled a scruffy man aboard and presented him to their queen at a safe distance.

At first glance, the man seemed harmless. He was older, perhaps in his mid-fifties, with short greying hair and beard adoring a weathered face. He bore no weapons and his clothing was simple, albeit well-made. In fact, the only thing of any interest in his appearance was the fact that he seemed to be missing the fingers of his left hand.

"Yer Grace," the man bowed, his accented voice rough with age but warm and friendly, "It's an honour to make yer acquaintance."

"And you are?"

"Ser Davos, Yer Grace," the man replied calmly, "Of House Seaworth. Here with tidings from His Grace, Jon Snow. The King in The North."

* * *

Queen Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen paced the length of her cabin with the letter from this so-called 'King in the North' clenched in her fist. It spoke of his desire to meet and discuss terms of an alliance between them and promised food, shelter and safety for her and her people in the North in return. It was reasonable, polite, and she did not trust it. Ser Davos, likewise, had been nothing but kind and seemingly honest, impervious to the veiled threats and distrust she had sent his way. Naturally, she'd had him placed in a small cabin deep within the ship under constant guard.

Her advisors sat around the table at the centre of her chamber in silence, watching her with a variety of varied expressions. Lord Tyrion had perked up at the mention of Jon Snow's name, questioning their guest with undisguised curiosity, and now studied her with a pinched expression that suggested he foresaw a difference of opinion between them. Varys and Grey Worm were both unreadable, as usual. Yara Greyjoy and Olenna Tyrell were chatting amongst themselves while Theon Greyjoy looked thoughtful. Ornela and two Dothraki bloodriders were clustered together with Missandei, who was quietly explaining the situation to them. Ellaria Sand, who had seen fit to leave her Sand Snakes aboard their own ship, sat quietly at the end of the table.

"Your Grace?" Lord Tyrion spoke at last, watching her for any sign his input was unwelcome, "I know Jon Snow, he struck me as an honest and honourable man. I like him."

"And you suggest I trust everyone based solely on your opinion of them?" Daenerys replied coldly, her eyes flicking to Varys.

Tyrion caught her gaze and a pained, yet resigned, expression twisted his mangled features for just a moment before he cleared it away. "Of course not, Your Grace," he replied, lightly, his expression mild once more, "But I am known to be an excellent judge of character."

"Honest and honourable, perhaps," Lady Olenna cut in, "But not overly clever. All he has accomplished is to draw your attention to himself and a North tuned to a frozen wasteland by recent wars. Should you choose to, you could burn Winterfell to the ground. Or, what remains of it after the Greyjoy boy and his little crew of Ironborn burned it once already."

Theon flinched visibly and ducked his head in shame.

Yara caught her brother's reaction and sighed. "A fleet of this size won't be capable of making the journey north once winter has set in," she pointed out, "If you want to take Winterfell with your full forces, or if you want to talk to this '_King Snow,_' either way the journey must be made now before the ice takes hold."

Daenerys fought the urge to sigh and examined the letter once more. Jon Snow proposed an alliance, but she was in no way obligated to accept and in the end Lady Olenna was correct. What little information they had all indicated that the North was in a bad way. Of course, Cersei Lannister would be expecting her to land at Dragonstone. It was the obvious choice. Perhaps attacking from the North would be wise? But then, Tyrion claimed to like this Northern King, and he was not one to suffer fools gladly. Why, then, would Jon Snow be foolish enough to draw her north unless it was an ambush of some type? And if she ignored him, what then? She would land on Dragonstone as she had intended and take the Iron Throne for herself, but what of the North?

She had always assumed she would find the Seven Kingdoms as seven united kingdoms and that once the Iron Throne was hers, that would be that. But if the North was operating as an independent entity, would they ride South on King's Landing or wait in the North and build their forces until she was forced to bring her own armies north to meet them? Winter could last for decades in Westeros, she knew. Would she be able to push north with the numbers needed to take Winterfell regardless, or would she have to wait to take the North until spring returned…

"Your Grace?"

The young queen looked up to find that Theon Greyjoy had moved closer to her while she had been focused on the parchment.

"May I see that letter?"

His voice was quiet and unsure as always, but Daenerys handed the letter over all the same. "What is it?" she asked.

Theon was silent for a moment. He turned the letter over in his permanently gloved hands again and again with an odd, almost longing, expression on his face. "There is no ambush," he said at last, uncharacteristically raising his head to meet her eyes, "There is no trick."

"How can you be certain?" she asked, taken aback by the conviction in his voice.

"This is written in Jon's hand. It's his words, and Jon doesn't lie."

"People change," Yara pointed out, watching her brother closely, but Theon merely smiled.

"Not Jon. Not like that."

"You know him that well?" Daenerys asked.

"Aye, we were boys together. I was raised alongside him at Winterfell. I… I was a proper cunt to him," he admitted, glancing away again, "I wanted Robb to myself and Jon was the one person I outranked in the household, but Jon… Jon was always the best of us. He is his father's son in every way except his name. If he says he wants to discuss an alliance, then that is the truth. I'd stake my life on it."

"You may have to," Tyrion pointed out dryly, "I can't imagine that he'll take kindly to seeing you again."

Theon shrugged. "If there's any one person left alive who deserves to kill me, it's Jon."

Tyrion opened his mouth to reply, but Daenerys silenced the room with a single raised hand.

"Give the order to drop anchor for the night," she instructed, forcing a confidence she did not feel and refusing to second guess herself, "And return Ser Davos to his ship under guard. We sail north come morning."


	10. THE PACK SURVIVES

**THE PACK SURVIVES**

Gendry II

Getting into Winterfell had been far easier than Gendry had expected. It seemed they were not the only ones making their way there, and it was easy enough to get lost in the mass pilgrimage, especially with Arya's skills. Around them men, women and children gossiped about their lives. Some praised their new King, others bemoaned the order to abandon their homes, and for a time a group of rowdy young men even bragged of their plans to fuck Winterfell's Red Lady. When those men did not return from a quick trek into the woods for a piss, most of their travelling companions seemed not to notice, but Gendry still endeavoured to keep a closer watch on Arya after that.

By the time Winterfell came into view up the King's Road, the young smith had all but surrendered his fingers and toes to the cold. Arya seemed unbothered, but she was one of the few. The group they had been travelling with lately was made up primarily of common folk coming north from the Eyrie, and the ever-increasing chill was a constant source of complaints. Still, by and large, they seemed grateful to have a place to go. Apparently the Hill Tribes had been particularly active (and well armed) since Lady Arryn's death. Gendry wasn't sure who the Hill Tribes were, but he assumed they must be savages of some sort. He'd tried asking Arya about them, but she had been getting more and more tense as they got closer to the castle and brushed off his questions.

The settlements built completely out of snow, which surrounded Winterfell's exterior wall, had been a surprise. Gendry had never considered that snow could be used in such a way. Arya, who seemed just as surprised by the ongoing construction as everyone else, had told him about the snow castles she and her brothers had built in the Godswood as children and the battles they had waged with snowballs from within them. The memory brought some humanity back into her face, and Gendry had done his best to keep it there as they approached the castle proper. He'd managed to get a fairly clear idea of what had happened to Arya after they had parted ways, which only served to make him regret the decision to leave her even more. If even half of what he suspected was true, it was little wonder she had grown as icy as her homeland in order to survive.

While he had been content to find shelter among the snow settlements, Arya had other ideas. Not only did she intend to sneak inside Winterfell's walls, but inside the main keep itself as well. Gendry had tried to suggest announcing her return to her sister, but Arya was having none of it. She had explained that she had no desire to shoulder the responsibilities that would come with retaking her birthright.

"And more than that," she had confessed when Gendry had given her a look of disbelief in response, "I just need to see… I need to know…."

And that was how a bastard smith from Flea Bottom found himself tucked away and living within the lesser known serving corridors and hidden alcoves of Winterfell's main keep.

Arya seemed alive in a way he hadn't seen her before. She was in her element, sneaking and exploring and _free_ in a place she so clearly belonged. While he shivered and slipped in the frosty climate, her steps never faltered and the frigidity brought a feral joy to her eyes. Often, he felt as though he was intruding on something deeply private as he watched her reaffirm her place among the snows.

Arya wasted no time in showing him around. From the rooms of the main keep to the glass gardens to the Godswood and the Broken Tower, they spent weeks exploring together and watching as more and more travellers arrived in the ever-growing snow settlements. Arya had also pointed her sister out to him, as she had taken to watching the Lady of Winterfell from afar. Gendry was careful not to mention the hint of pride he had caught in her eyes as she watched over the older woman.

Standing in front of her now, Gendry fully understood Arya's pride.

Lady Sansa Stark was beautiful in a way that seemed to emanate strength and poise and looked every bit the part of a Queen. She was tall for a woman with long red hair, blue eyes and a face that would surely bring her no shortage of suitors. They were in the Godswood, just the three of them. Two ladies of a Great House and a baseborn bastard who had no business being there. It wasn't often that he saw the highborn lady Arya truly was but as she stood calm and composed, facing off with the regal figure that was her sister, all he could see was a woman the likes of which he could never hope to equal.

"How did you know?" Arya asked at last.

Lady Sansa's face was impassive. "I saw a figure climbing the route that you and Bran loved as children, so I followed. You still look like you."

Arya's lip twitched. "How's that? Horse-faced and unkempt?"

"Quite," Sansa replied, before allowing a smile to form.

Arya followed suit and Gendry looked away in an attempt to offer them privacy as the two sisters finally pulled each other into an embrace.

"I thought you were dead," Lady Sansa told her sister when they broke apart, "Everyone did. What happened to you?"

The smile slipped from the younger Stark's face. "Nothing pleasant."

Her sister hummed in agreement. "No, I suppose not. Nothing pleasant for me either."

"And yet here we are."

"Yes, here we are."

The Godswood lapsed into silence once more. Gendry huddled as deep into the cloak Arya had stolen for him as possible and did his best to ignore the biting wind. To his shame, the action seemed to draw Lady Sansa's attention as she gestured in his direction.

"I never got your name."

"Gendry, m'Lady," he replied quickly, ducking his head in a quick approximation of a bow.

"I met Gendry when I escaped King's Landing," Arya cut in, calmly, "He's a friend."

If Lady Stark found it curious that her sister considered a man with only one name her friend, she didn't let on. "Then I am honoured to meet you, Gendry," she said, "And I thank you for helping my sister find her way home."

"I deserve no thanks in that respect, m'Lady," Gendry dismissed the gratitude instinctively, "In truth it is I who should be thanking your sister. I would have surely died more than once without her."

Lady Sansa's face softened somewhat, and the effect seemed to melt years off her face. "I don't doubt it," she agreed, "Is that a Flea Bottom accent?"

Gendry, more than a little uncomfortable with the attention, sought out Arya for instructions only to find her smirking unhelpfully. Snapping his focus back to her sister, he tried his best to polish his tone as he replied. "Yes, my Lady."

"Gendry trained with Tobho Mott," Arya interrupted, much to Gendry's relief, "The master smith," she added for her sister's benefit, "You would have encountered plenty of his work at Court."

"Did he?" Lady Sansa regarded him again, and Gendry became painfully aware of his callused hands, stubbled cheeks, threadbare clothing and stolen cloak, "Well, we can certainly use all the talented tradesmen we can find. Would a position in Winterfell's forge be of interest to you?"

"I…" the young smith stammered, more than a little surprised by the offer, "Yes, of course, m'Lady. It would be an honour."

"Excellent," the Lady of Winterfell agreed briskly, "I'll see to it that you have a place prepared in the smith's chambers. I'm afraid, with the number of people currently in Winterfell, you will have to share."

"Thank you, m'Lady," Gendry bowed again, "That is most generous of you."

"Gendry," Lady Sansa was smiling softly again and waited until he met her gaze before continuing, "You brought my sister home to me. Whether you believe you deserve thanks or not, I am grateful."

Gendry felt himself flush as he sought an appropriate response.

"I imagine you'll be announcing my return." Arya sighed, effectively saving him from having to reply.

"Do you want me to?"

"No."

"Very well," Lady Sansa replied, her voice businesslike once more, "Nor do I. You know this place better than almost anyone and you have clearly managed to stay hidden this long, I want your help."

Arya quirked a single eyebrow. "You want me to spy for you?" she clarified, "On your own people?"

Her sister didn't bat an eye. "Yes. And one man in particular. Petyr Baelish."

"Baelish?" Arya frowned curiously, "You mean Littlefinger? The man from the tourney who tried to frighten you by telling you about the Mountain and the Hound?"

Lady Sansa paused for a moment before a bitter laugh escaped her. "I supposed that would be all you know of him."

"And you know more?" Arya surmised, and Gendry noted that she bypassed any mention of Harrenhal or Tywin Lannister or the panicked look in her eyes when she'd curled up next to him in the forge that night…

"Unfortunately." The Lady of Winterfell's face was as frigid as the realm she presided over, "He's a dangerous man. He has eyes and ears everywhere and trades in information and lies as it suits him. To stay ahead of him, I need to see him when he can't see me."

Gendry shifted his weight back and forth on the balls of his feet. Whether it was the biting cold or the topic of conversation making him restless, he couldn't be certain, but he knew that he would be grateful to get out of the situation. The dangerous glint was back in Arya's eyes and, for all the obvious differences between them, the manner in which Lady Sansa held herself was not at all dissimilar from her sister.

"It would be simpler just to kill him," Arya's voice was deceptively light, "I could have it done by the 'morrow, faster if you're not troubled by someone finding the body…"

The sisters stared at each other for a long moment, each studying the other openly, and Gendry found himself holding his breath.

"I believe you," Lady Sansa nodded at last, giving the younger Stark a final appraising look, "But I must refuse. For now, it serves us best to keep him alive."

Arya took the refusal in stride. "How do I find him?" She asked.

"Come to my chambers this evening after sundown, he will be leaving."

Arya raised an eyebrow at the statement, the question obvious in her expression.

"He believes himself to be my teacher, of sorts," Lady Sansa dismissed her sister's curiosity, "And I didn't have the luxury of having friends to share my journey."

"You're in the Lord and Lady's chambers, I expect?" Arya surmised, her voice just a shade colder than it had been before.

"I am."

There passed another pregnant pause as the sisters eyed each other once more. Eventually Lady Sansa allowed her posture to loosen and Arya followed suit, turning to study the Weirwood tree in the centre of the clearing.

"You should know that he is actively searching for you on my orders," the elder Stark stated as she straightened her dress front and cloak.

Gendry stared at her, but Arya didn't bother to turn around.

"Why?" she asked.

"I suspected you were here, and I wanted his attention elsewhere before I sought you out."

"And you believe he'll do as you intend?" Arya knelt before the tree and ran a gloved hand down the trunk, dislodging the accumulated snow.

Lady Sansa didn't shrug, but her indifference was still evident. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. Ideally, you're skilled enough that it doesn't matter."

Straightening up and brushing the snow from her hands, Arya turned back to her sister at last. "I'll see you tonight, then."

"See that he doesn't," Lady Sansa warned as she turned and began making her way back toward the edge of the Godswood. At the treeline she paused and glanced back over her shoulder, all the hard edges gone from her expression. "I'm glad you're safe, Arya," she said softly.

A tiny, but true smile chased some of the danger from Arya's eyes. "You too."

Lady Sansa gave a final nod before heading off through the trees toward the castle. Gendry, who had been rooted — or perhaps frozen — in place while the women conversed, shook himself free and made his way stiffly to Arya's side.

"Do me a favour, Gendry?" Arya asked him once he reached her and the snow had swallowed up her sister's form, "Find out what happened to her."

Gendry blinked. "I beg your pardon?" he asked, confused. He'd sensed the tension between them, but this seemed a bit excessive.

Arya sighed, her brow pinched and a thoughtful frown on her face. "Sansa was never one to put family first," she explained, "I need to know what's changed…"

A glance at his best friend's expression yielded a hint of something he couldn't quite place, but it tugged on his heartstrings all the same. "And how do you suggest I do that?"

"You have a position in the castle now and servants are the biggest gossips in the Keep. You're pretty enough, ask them."

Gendry couldn't help the laugh that escaped him. "You think I'm pretty?"

Arya merely rolled her eyes and disappeared into the snow after her sister.


	11. THE FURIOUS SHE-FREYS

**THE FURIOUS SHE-FREYS**

Jaime II

House Frey lived still.

That was what he'd written to Cersei and sent off by raven three weeks prior. She had yet to reply, so Jaime had no way of knowing how she would react to the news, but he didn't imagine she'd be pleased. For all her bitterness about her plight as a woman, he could never recall having seen his sister take a female friend in any capacity other than necessity. Sometimes he wondered if there was any man alive who hated women as much as Cersei Lannister.

The Furious She-Freys — as the Riverlands had dubbed them — may not garner Cersei's respect, but they had certainly gained his.

Bronn had been right to believe the rumours of House Frey's slaughter at the hands of an unknown assailant. The further they had travelled into the Riverlands, the more obvious the signs of recent violence had become. Old Walder Frey was dead. His sons, trueborn and bastard alike, were dead. His nephews were dead and his grandsons too. A few of the younger Frey boys had survived the 'the dinner' but none over the age of eight and only great nephews or grandsons by bastard fathers with hardly a hope to claim the Twins, let alone Riverrun. The culprit had been most thorough in their eradication.

The Riverlands had turned to chaos after that. With no clear authority left in place, violence had run rampant. The Freys may have been useless, but their presence had managed to keep some semblance of peace among the people. With both the Tullys and the Freys dead, the remaining Houses had turned on each other in a bloody battle for supremacy while the common folk had taken the opportunity to loot and pillage in the absence of any law enforcement. Even if there was reason to doubt the story on everyone's lips, evidence of its truth was found in freshly dug graves and ransacked villages and castles.

Somehow, from the midst of that chaos, two women had risen. Kitty Frey, the young widow of the late Lord Walder, and her daughter-by-law Roslin Tully had cobbled together enough Houses to support their claims through regency of their soon-to-be born child and young son, respectively. By the time Jaime and his forces arrived at the Twins, a tentative peace had befallen the Riverlands once more.

They had met Lady Roslin only briefly upon their arrival before she and her son had returned to Riverrun. The woman at the heart of the Red Wedding was a pretty young thing, polite and proper with that quiet kind of strength that is often overlooked. Her son (the same boy that Jaime had once threatened to fire over the walls at Riverrun) was a happy babe with Tully colouring and his mother's dainty features who would surely grow up to be a pretty, if not masculine, man. Jaime hadn't asked after his father. Rumours of Edmure Tully's murder at the hands of surviving Blackfish loyalists were as easy to come by as those about his wife and mother-by-law, after all.

Kitty Frey, on the other hand, did not possess Roslin's natural grace. The girl — and truly she was still a girl — was plain to look at and bloated with pregnancy, but what she lacked in appearance and social graces she made up for with a deceptively sharp wit and the shrewd intelligence needed to pull the Riverlands back under control. The longer he spent as her guest, the more Jaime grew fond of the young Lady Frey. In many ways he found she reminded him of Brienne, although he tried to avoid thinking about that too often.

Rolling out of bed, Jaime put a stop to that line of thought. His body popped and cracked in protest as he hauled himself upright, and he wondered dully just when he had become old. He pondered absentmindedly how Ser Barristan had done it for so long, before snorting to himself. He'd not lost his fucking hand, for starters, nor been starved and sedentary for more than a year.

_The one battle I remember you fighting, you were captured by Robb Stark, The Young Wolf…_

Fucking Walder Frey. Fucking Robb Stark. Fucking Roose Bolton. Fucking Locke. Fuck his own stupid mouth. Fuck this whole bloody war.

Jaime dressed as he had for the last three years, as slowly and clumsily as a simple child, and hated every second of it. He refused to have servants help him, even when he was in King's Landing, as he found observing his uselessness reflected on another's face was more than he could stand. The mocking quirk of their lips, the disgust in the slant of their noses and worst of all the pity in their eyes… It was a small mercy most of his former Kingsgaurd were dead or exiled, to see such reactions from them would have been the death of him.

Unbidden, memories of his knighting floated to the forefront of his mind. The boy on the cusp of manhood he had been, bright and eager and full of life, looking upon the men he aspired to one day be. The genuine quirk of Ser Arthur Dayne's lips as he made Jaime's dream a reality. A young Ser Barristan stood proudly beside his fellow Kingsgaurd. Ser Gerold Hightower. Ser Oswell Whent. Prince Lewyn. Ser Darry… And him, the boy who would go on to repay most of their deaths by killing the King they had sworn to protect.

When he was presentable at last, he emerged into the grey fog typical of mornings in the Riverlands and began making his way toward the Twins' main hall, his mind still muddled with memories and smothered by fatigue.

Lady Frey hadn't offered to house any of her guests within her walls, and Jaime hadn't requested the hospitality. The mutual understanding was unspoken and probably wise. As he moved between the red tents of the Lannister camp, Bronn fell into step beside him. When Lady Frey had requested that he join her to break their fast this morning the former sellsword, never one to pass up a free meal, had volunteered to serve as his guard. Jaime suspected that there was an ulterior motive of curiosity to Bronn's actions, but left that suspicion unspoken as well. He would have happily walked all the way to the gates without acknowledging the other man at all if Randyll Tarly hadn't intercepted them at the edge of the camp.

"Ser Jaime," Tarly nodded in greeting, "We've received a raven from King's Landing. It bears the Queen's personal seal."

A flicker of apprehension stirred in his gut as Jaime accepted the message in his good hand. Cersei had taken to sending all her commands and communications through Qyburn and on behalf of the Crown, so a personal letter was not what he had been expecting. He could feel Bronn's eyes on him as he tugged the scroll open with as much grace as could be expected from a one-handed man, his gaze heavy with undisguised curiosity. Lord Tarly was more subtle, but stayed barely a step closer than would be considered proper all the same. Jaime ignored both of them.

_Ser Jaime,_

_Ensure that Ladies Frey and Tully swear fidelity to the Crown. They will maintain order in the Riverlands on our behalf. Should they fail, we will take the Riverlands by force and place it under direct Lannister control. This is their only warning._

_Reports indicate that Highgarden is without the majority of its soldiers, as they have fled to the Dragon Queen's side. You are commanded to take the castle. All stores of gold and food are to be transported to the Red Keep._

_You are likewise commanded to employ a scribe for all further communication. Your writing is illegible._

_Cersei of the House Lannister, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm._

Jaime read the letter twice, slowly, ensuring he had understood everything correctly even as he tried to pinpoint the feeling this direct correspondence from his sister brought him. It was a disquieting mix of the wariness that had seeped into their interactions since she… since the Sept was destroyed… and the all-encompassing love that was all he had known since he was old enough to know anything. There was shame as well. And fear. And desire, and loathing, and duty, and the feeling of being whole that only his twin could bring about…

He shook himself free of his spiralling thoughts and tucked the paper away. "We have been ordered to take Highgarden," he announced, watching Randyll Tarly glance up sharply, "I will lead the march to the Reach myself. Ser Bronn, should Lady Frey so desire, you will remain here in the Riverlands with a limited force to ensure continued peace as she and Lady Tully establish their positions more securely. Lord Tarly, I trust I can rely on you to oversee marching preparations?"

"Of course, Ser Jaime," Tarly inclined his head in an approximation of a bow, but made no other move to do as he had been instructed, "The Tyrells will not go down without a fight," he said after a beat, "Would it not be wiser to install a trusted Lord to rule over the Riverlands so that the army could march on Highgarden as a whole? These Frey girls are hardly capable of managing a Kingdom…"

Jaime frowned. "I appreciate your concern, my Lord," he replied stiffly, "However, my orders stand. Her Grace included reports that Highgarden is mostly unprotected as their forces have sailed to meet Daenerys Targaryen's fleet. In light of winter's approach, I think it prudent to reduce the amount of resources we utilize where possible."

Tarly inclined his head once more, recognizing the dismissal in his commander's voice, and turned back to camp swiftly.

"Bit of a cunt, that one," Bronn observed, thankfully once the Marcher Lord was out of earshot.

"Lord Tarly is an experienced battle commander," Jaime sighed, having long given up trying to manage the sellsword's tongue, "And with Lady Olenna in open rebellion against the Crown, his allegiance is vital to maintaining control in the Reach."

"Aye," Bronn agreed, "Still a cunt, though."

Jaime didn't bother to respond, choosing instead to continue on his way and trusting Bronn to keep up without prompting. The men guarding the Twins' primary gates were polite in their distaste for them and led them to the Great Hall without fanfare. When last he had been here, only a few moons ago, the hall's decor had screamed of a Lord trying to reach a status he had not earned. Now, though, the room was nearly bare with the focus having clearly shifted to maintaining warmth and a level of cleanliness. As in all things, it seemed, Kitty Frey was plain yet efficient. He couldn't help but wonder if old Lord Walder had even the slightest idea when he married her. Likely not.

She sat at the head table, dressed in a loose fitting dress with her dirt-brown hair half tied back and lacking the customary Frey cap. She had not waited on their arrival to start her meal, however she had seen to it that food was already laid out in anticipation of their arrival. Bowing in greeting, Jaime and Bronn took their seats at the lower table closest to their host and, when she offered no conversation, turned to their plates instead.

The meal was silent for several minutes before Jaime couldn't take it any longer. A man of action, Cersei had often called him, mockingly. Impatient, he had often called himself. "Lady Frey," he began, setting his plate to one side and looking up at the girl, "If I may, was there a reason you wished to dine with me this morning?"

Kitty eyed him as she finished chewing, before raising her hand. A servant hurried forward and removed the remnants of her meal without a word. "You have received word from the Queen by now," she replied once the servant had left the hall, "I had hoped to discuss her orders in person."

_Reasonable, _Jaime thought as he nodded. "Of course — " he began but stopped mid-sentence. _Of course_... She'd already known when she had asked them to join her, and she'd ensured that they had limited time to discuss the orders amongst themselves before she had her opportunity… Jaime fought the urge to club himself with his golden hand. _Clever girl…_

"When did the raven truly arrive?" he asked.

"Yesterday," Lady Frey appeared completely unfazed by the accusations, her face remaining impassive as she folded her hands atop her swollen stomach. "Sometime before midday, I believe. I took the liberty of having it fed, watered and rested before returning it to you."

Jaime found himself stuck somewhere between resignation and annoyance, and the result was narrowed eyes and a quickly stifled sigh. "Am I to believe that's all you took the liberty of having done?" The bone deep ache of exhaustion which had been clinging to him since his return to King's Landing was tugging at him again. _Cersei was going to kill him…_

"The Queen's seal was intact, was it not?" Kitty sighed in her own right, "I am not my late husband, Ser Jaime. The letter was left untouched. Lie to me about its contents if you would like, but I can't imagine what you would stand to gain from such an action."

"And what do you gain from your action?"

The girl smiled, finally, small and soft with steel in her eyes. "It's difficult to play when no one knows you're part of the game."

They stared at each other for a long moment, a Kingslayer and a pregnant child, until Bronn began to chuckle.

"I like her," he decided, smirking.

Jaime glowered at him and bit back the retort that the true cunt in the Lannister forces was sitting across from him rather than preparing for the march. Instead, he pulled the scroll from his pocket and tossed it onto the table next to his plate. Nothing to hide, and all that nonsense. He wasn't as inept at the game as his father and Cersei had always claimed. "Her Grace has issued orders for our forces to leave the Riverlands. She is willing to leave the region under you and Lady Roslin's control for the time being, but understand that failure to maintain order will result in your removal and the Riverlands falling under direct Lannister rule."

Lady Frey's smile did not falter, but it did twist into something more wry and sharp than Jaime would have thought her capable of. "My mother was a Lady, of sorts," she told him calmly, her eyes never leaving his face, "Fifth-born daughter of a second-born son who married below his station. My father came from a line of second sons, so far removed from his family's name that he may as well have been a bastard. He married her rather than go to the Wall. She married him to avoid going through her lady's change still a maid. I was destined to be nothing. Not low enough to be common, yet with a name that means not. When Lord Walder lost his latest wife to Catelyn Stark's blade, my parents sold me off happily. I was newly turned ten and two, and not yet flowered, but that didn't trouble my Lord husband."

She paused, climbing to her feet and straightening her dress as much as her belly would allow, before continuing. "When I watched them die, when I looked into the eyes of the one who had done it and saw a woman hardly older than myself, that was the moment I decided. I am no longer a broken broodmare or a tight fit, I am Lady Kitty Frey of the Twins, Lady Paramount of the Riverlands. I am not my husband, and I am not beholden to his vows. I rule the Riverlands not because they were given to me by your family, but because Roslin and I took them. I will swear fidelity to the crown because it is in my best interest, not because Queen Cersei lets me."

"Tread carefully, Lady Frey…" Jaime warned, voice pitched low.

Kitty ducked her head in deference, but her eyes remained sharp as ever. "Of course, Ser Jaime. I meant no offence. It will be my honour to hold the Riverlands in our Queen's name."

Bronn snorted.

Jaime ignored him. "Good. Ser Bronn will remain in the Riverlands with a portion of the Lannister forces to aid you in maintaining order." _And to ensure you're not more of a threat than previously thought,_ he added silently, "The bulk of the force will leave with me immediately."

The young Lady lowered herself back into her seat with a nod. "Very well," she agreed easily, "I'll see to it that your travels through the Riverlands are unhindered."

"Very kind of you, my Lady," Jaime replied without conviction as he got to his feet, "Now, if you'll excuse us, we have much to prepare. Ser Bronn?"

Bronn popped a few last pieces of meat into his mouth as he rose to join Jaime in making their way out of the hall. They were nearly at the doors when Lady Frey spoke up again from her place at the High Table.

"I must admit, I'm surprised, Ser Jaime."

Both men paused and glanced back at her.

"Surprised, my Lady?" Jaime asked.

"I would have expected you to question me as to the identity of the woman who slaughtered an entire House. I did indicate I had come face to face with her, and yet…"

Jaime frowned, unwilling to admit that her subsequent remarks about Cersei had been enough to keep him from truly appreciating the implications of the girl's admission. "And who was she, then?"

Kitty shrugged, unconcerned. "No one I recognized," she said mildly, "Dark hair, light eyes, rather small. Nothing remarkable."

Forcing down a surge of frustration, Jaime pushed the doors open with his good arm. "Very well then, we'll be on our way. Thank you for your hospitality, my Lady."

"She had a message," Lady Frey called after them as the doors swung closed behind them, "For those who asked after what had happened in this very hall. Tell them the North remembers, she said, tell them winter came for House Frey…"

Kitty's words certainly had nothing to do with the winter winds nipping tauntingly at his skin as Jaime made his way back to camp…


	12. THE RAVEN IN THE REEDS

**THE RAVEN IN THE REEDS**

Jon III

The Wall was beautiful no matter how many times he saw it, although observing it now brought about a strange mix of emotions. There was no excitement or wonder, as there had been the first time he laid eyes on the massive structure, nor was there relief or the sense of home that had trickled through his fading consciousness when he'd returned with news of the impending Wildling attack. If anything, what he felt now was rather more like returning to a hostile castle with the beaten, frozen remnants of the free folk after Hardhome, but even that wasn't quite right. Staring up at the Wall through the falling snow, Jon just felt wrong.

Gooseflesh prickled its way up his neck and the wounds in his chest, which were already angry from the harsh travelling conditions, seemed to push a stifling _nothingness_ into his very core that stole away his breath and stilled his lungs. He had died here. He'd been murdered here.

"Thank fuck," the gruff voice of the representative for House Royce sounded over the wind, pulling the King from his thoughts, "My cock is about to freeze off."

General exclamations of agreement sounded from the rest of the group. The only exceptions were Lady Lyanna Mormont, who had insisted on representing her House herself, and Lady Brienne's squire, Podrick, who rode at the King's elbow. Jon had tried to dissuade him from serving him to such an extent until Podrick had confessed that he did so under orders from Sansa. Truthfully, he had come to appreciate the other man's company and found his cheerful, eager disposition reminded him somewhat of Sam. Ghost loped along on his other side, his tongue lolling happily out of his mouth.

"It must be strange, Your Grace," Podrick mused, gazing up at the mass of ice, "Coming back here, I mean."

Jon glanced at him briefly and heaved a sigh. "Aye…" he agreed, quietly. As a child, he had always supposed he would grow old and die here. And perhaps he had. Somewhere along the line, the naïve boy who had first entered Castle Black had slipped away and Jon doubted he would ever return. "It's strange."

Much to Jon's relief, the first face that greeted them as they rode into Castle Black was that of Eddison Tollet. The other man was as grim-faced and dreary looking as ever, but somehow they both managed a smile as they clasped hands tightly. Ghost knocked into the new Lord Commander playfully before bounding off, probably to try his luck in the kitchens.

"Well, you haven't knocked it down, at least," Jon nodded toward the castle.

"Not for lack of trying," Edd groused, eyeing the dilapidated structure with distaste as he brushed the wolf's fur from his cloak, "It's good to see you, Jon."

"And you." The King pulled his former brother into a quick embrace before turning to his group of travelling companions. "My Lords," he addressed them, "And My Lady, may I introduce Eddison Tollet, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."

"Welcome to Castle Black, such as it is," Edd sighed, "You lot best follow me, I've something you need to see."

Curious, Jon tried to catch his old friend's eye, but Edd waved him off and instead led the group of weary travellers through the courtyard. There were a few brothers of the Night's Watch and free folk fighters milling about, but less than Jon had expected. They shouted out to him in greeting as the group passed by, and he nodded in return.

"We've manned as many of the castles as we can," Edd explained, obviously noting Jon's expression, "With the bare minimum of men, granted, but I didn't figure we should be leavin' any part of the Wall unguarded."

Jon nodded. "Probably wise."

They were beyond the principal buildings now, near the latrine pits both past and present. The shelter built over the active pit was traditionally reused when a new pit was established, so it surprised Jon to spot a second, obviously newer, building off to one side. It was that new building that Edd stopped them in front of, turning to face them as the wind began to pick up around them.

"You want to show us your latrine?" one of the men mocked as he huddled beneath his cloak.

Jon silenced him with a look. "What is this, Edd?"

Edd's expression twisted into a grim smile. "This is why you're here," he replied, signalling for them to stay quiet as he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The building was tiny, half taken up by a reinforced cage with a pile of rags in the far corner. As the group squeezed into the remaining space, Edd lit up several torches on the cage's bars which lit the scene with an eerie glow. There was hardly room for all of them, but at last they got the door closed and Jon finally got a close enough look to realize that the pile of rags was not a pile of rags at all.

"This was Oakann," Edd informed them softly, "She died two weeks past when a fever took her."

"Why haven't you burned her?" Jon asked, eyeing the body warily even as his hand slid to Longclaw's hilt.

"It was the free folk's idea," Edd, Jon noted, had not lowered his hand away from the torches he had lit, "It seems the Walkers have to be close for them to rise. We keep a body on ice at all times, an advance warning of sorts."

"You have a little girl's body in chains," Lyanna Mormont's voice was quiet, as requested, but no less firm than usual.

"You're fucking mad," a representative from House Glover added, paying less head to the instructions to keep his voice down, "Show the child some — "

An all too familiar screech pierced the air.

Edd grabbed a torch in hand and Jon followed suit instinctively as the pile of rags' dead blue eyes snapped open. The creature lunged to its feet, straining against the chains binding it to the back wall as it clawed viciously at them. As she was a rather fresh wight, the child's skin and flesh was still intact and mottled with congealed blood, but her jaw hung open unnaturally as she fought to break free.

"Four days ago she rose," Edd watched the monster with a cautious detachment, "This is a wight. The Army of the Dead has millions of them."

A quick glance back at his travelling companions revealed faces twisted with various levels of fear, disgust and horror as their owners stared on in stunned silence. Jon, however, was focused on something else.

"This means there's a Walker close by," he said, addressing Edd alone.

The Lord Commander grimaced. "Don't remind me. We've got ranging parties out lookin', but…"

"That's not — "

"She's dead — "

"How?…"

The men seemed to be regaining their ability to speak, if only in brief, disbelieving bursts.

"She's dead," Edd confirmed, irritation colouring his tone, "And she's looking to rip you all limb from limb. Just as Jon has no doubt already told you, this is what we're fighting. You could hack her to bits and those bits would just keep fighting. Ever fought for your life against an arm?"

"Fire is the only thing that'll kill a wight," Jon interrupted before Edd could really hit his stride. He tossed his torch into the cage and watched as the girl went up in flames, still shrieking, "They don't feel pain, they don't tire, they don't need feed or water, they don't get sore or feel fear. They kill."

The silence which overtook the group as the fire consumed the wight and her screams petered out stretched for several minutes. The smell of burnt flesh was nearly suffocating in the tiny space, but no one dared to move. At long last, it was little Lyanna Mormont who squared her shoulders and stepped forward.

"How do we survive?"

* * *

Some hours later, Jon found himself in his once-familiar position atop the Wall. Edd had seen the group of representatives set up with members of the free folk and Night's Watch both to further share their experiences with the White Walkers and the Army of the Dead, and Jon had made his excuses and escaped the room as soon as possible. Now, with the wind biting his face and fresh snow in his hair, he allowed his relief to show. _Thank the Gods for Edd, _he thought. They had seen it with their own eyes. They _believed_. Something akin to hope stirred in his mangled chest.

The muffled crunch of footfalls alerted him to a presence behind him, and he released a lengthy breath that danced away as steam in the winter air. "You should have burned her the moment she turned."

Edd grumbled as he joined Jon in his watch. "And miss the opportunity to see the fancy Lords and Ladies shit themselves?" he quipped, "Not fucking likely."

Jon huffed out a laugh in spite of himself. "It certainly made convincing them simpler, I'll give you that."

They stood shoulder to shoulder for a moment before Edd sighed. "Much as I enjoy the view, there's something you need to see."

"It's not another wight, is it?" Jon asked, only half joking.

"It's not another wight," Edd confirmed, "Follow me."

Jon did so without question, happily shedding his royal duties in favour of following orders for a time. The two old friends made their way all the way from the edge of the Wall to the winch cart before Jon spoke again.

"Where's Tormund? I've never known him to be quiet so long."

Edd pulled the cart door open and signalled to the Night's Watchmen manning the winch that they would be heading down. "He's north of the Wall," he replied, "Leading a ranging party to investigate the Land of Always Winter."

The familiar creaking and groaning of worn ropes and gears signalled the beginning of their descent.

"That's suicide."

"I know. He does as well. But no one had seen a White Walker in thousands of years, not even the free folk, so where else could they have been?"

An image of four mounted creatures staring down at him on Hardhome's shores invaded Jon's mind, and he barely suppressed a shudder. The White Walkers didn't behave like their undead counterparts, they were not mindless killers with no sense or thought, which made them all the more frightening. "You think they'll find some clues as to what the Walkers are after?"

Edd shrugged as though a massive weight held his shoulders down. "I haven't the faintest idea, but we had to do something."

The winch cart reached the base of the Wall with a graceless thump, and the two men stepped out into Castle Black's courtyard. Jon had expected that whatever Edd planned to show him would be found within the castle itself and nearly turned that way before he realized that the Lord Commander was making his way instead toward the tunnel which opened up north of the Wall. Frowning to himself, the King hastened to fall into step with his old friend once more. "Have you had any word from Sam?" he asked as they walked.

"We received a raven a few moons back informing us that he was safely accepted at the citadel and had ensured all the Night's Watch records were up to date and you were recorded as Lord Commander," Edd looked particularly grim, "I wrote back, told him what happened, but no word since."

Jon winced at the reminder.

"They ever heal?" Edd asked as he gestured uncomfortably toward his chest.

The now-familiar pressure pressed tauntingly against his ribcage, and Jon fought the urge to attempt to rub the tightness away. "No," he said softly.

They covered the rest of the distance in silence. Most of the time he appreciated Edd's quiet nature but, as the massive gate (_cold rolled steel,_ Ser Janos Slynt's voice floated through his mind) lifted before them and they stepped into the snow beyond, Jon found himself wishing for a distraction from the now-pulsing ache in his chest. With none forthcoming, he curled his fingers around Longclaw's hilt and allowed it to ground him as he scanned the treeline. Edd took up a similar stance and the two men traipsed into the forest with a synchronicity born of years of practice.

It didn't take long for Jon to work out where they were headed. The mile-long trek to the Weirwood tree was a journey he had made many times, but the cluster of people around it was certainly a surprise. As Edd signalled for the Night's Watchmen to retreat to a respectful distance, two figures remained near the scarred trunk. One, a girl dressed in free folk garb and boosting several weapons, watched him cautiously from the mouth of an animal pelt tent. But it was the man who sat at the base of the Weirwood tree who had Jon's attention.

And he was a man now. With his dark reddish-brown hair and blue eyes, he looked so like Robb had when they had parted ways…

"Bran," Jon whispered, heart jumping into his throat as he approached his little brother and knelt to embrace him tightly, "Is that really you?"

Bran's face was the picture of tranquillity when they broke apart, and he looked his brother up and down. "Hello, Jon," he said calmly, "I've been expecting you."

Expecting? _Oh…_ Bran would think him still a brother of the Night's Watch. "Forgive me, I'm no longer with the Night's Watch. I hope you've not been waiting too long, I was back in — "

"You misunderstand. I expected you today, at this moment, just as you are. Your brothers killed you for a reason, and the fire set you free."

Jon fell cold in a way that had nothing to do with the snow or the wind. "I don't understand…"

"You are not meant to. My third eye opened when I fell. It is not to be understood, only accepted," Bran smiled serenely, "I observe the realms of land and time, all together as one. What is and was and could be. You are where you are meant to be, Your Grace."

"Bran, you're speaking nonsense — "

"Your Grace, if I might interrupt?" the girl Jon had noted earlier spoke up for the first time, her voice respectful but sure, "My name is Meera Reed. Our fathers fought together during Robert's Rebellion."

"Reed. You're Howland Reed's daughter?"

"Yes, Your Grace. I…" here she stumbled, eyes flicking to Bran and back again as she seemed to consider her words, "Bran speaks the truth. My family has carried the gift of foresight since its creation. My grandfather had it. My father has it. My brother had it. And Bran has it. The free folk call them — "

"Greenseers," Jon finished, recalling the word from his time north of the Wall.

"Yes," Meera Reed was watching him closely, "When your father was killed, my father cried and told Jojen it was time. Jojen's visions led us to Bran, scarcely escaped from the Ironborn at Winterfell, and from there far north of the Wall in search of the Three-Eyed Raven, a man said to have the knowledge to defeat the dead."

Jon stood and began to pace the length of the clearing as he struggled to comprehend the information being pushed on him. Despite his younger brother's presence, the King felt as though he was being pulled further into winter's abyss rather than the feeling of home his reunion with Sansa had brought him.

"We found him beneath The Tree in the company of the Children," Bran seemed unaware of Jon's struggles, "He trained me until I became him."

"You _became_ him?" Jon repeated.

Bran's calm never faltered. "Winterfell is the key," he continued, mildly, "There is so much still to be done."

Jon stared at him. Bran smiled back. In his peripheral vision, Meera Reed shifted awkwardly.

"We're short on firewood," she announced, abruptly, "I'll fetch some more, then, shall I…? Only, I know it's horribly inappropriate but, a second pair of hands would be… Not that I'm telling you, Your Grace, obviously, but…"

"Meera wishes to speak to you alone," Bran interrupted, turning his empty smile on his companion and watching her with unblinking eyes, "I assure you I will be perfectly safe."

To his utter shock, Jon found that leaving his brother's side was not something he was opposed to. Bran's presence was oppressive in a way that was difficult to describe. "Of course, My Lady. Shall we?"

Meera nodded once and turned on her heel. Jon hurried after her, surprised by her ease in navigating the frozen woods. Further and further into the forest she led them, past several perfectly good collections of fallen branches, a nervous energy pouring off her in waves as she marched through the snow. When she stopped dead in her tracks, the change was so sudden that Jon nearly crashed into her.

"You need to leave him here."

Jon blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Bran. You need to leave him here," she had turned to face him, her eyes alight with fear and determination in equal measure, "Do not bring him past the Wall. By all the Gods, don't bring him past the Wall."

"Lady Reed…" Jon sighed and dragged a hand through his snow-covered hair. Gods, what he wouldn't give for the counsel of someone wiser than him. Maester Aemon. Sam. Mance Rayder. His father. Sansa… Anyone who was better suited to the rigours of authority. "I'm confused," he confessed, "By Bran. By you. By this fucking war. But I know that Bran is my brother, and I know I have to keep him safe. I need to bring him home."

Meera didn't seem surprised by his response. "I know," she agreed, "I know all too well. My brother was fragile, like my father, the toll of his visions measured in fits and illness. It was my duty to protect him, to keep him from harm, and I failed. I watched the wight cut him down. I — I cut his throat to spare his pain. It was the price to get Bran to The Tree. The price of following prophecy. I can't pay that price again."

"Lady Reed, you have my deepest sympathies — "

"I don't want your sympathies, Your Grace," Meera interrupted, not unkindly, "We followed visions blindly to that tree and Jojen paid with his life. Bran followed a vision and walked among the Army of the Dead and paid for that with a mark, the Night King's mark, burned into him. That mark rendered thousands of years of magic designed to keep the Walkers out useless, and they were upon us in moments. The Children, the Three-Eyed Raven, Hodor, Summer, they all paid with their lives. And now Bran's visions would have us travel south of the Wall and I am afraid, Your Grace. I'm afraid that if Bran is allowed south of the Wall the spells built into it will fall, just as those at The Tree did."

Jon frowned. "Surely, if Bran wields this power, he would be aware of the cost of his actions."

Meera's expression was pained. "I know your brother," she told him, the pain bleeding into her voice, "I love your brother. I have seen him laugh and dream and hurt and cry. I have carried him, kept him warm, kept him clean and tended the sores on his legs before corruption could set him. I know his secrets, his hopes and the dreams he gave up on. I know every inch of his body as though it were my own. That isn't Bran. I wish it was, more than anything, but… When the Three-Eyed Raven took him, when he became… I don't know what he is, but it's not Bran. Not anymore. I'm sorry, Your Grace, I'm so very sorry. I failed him. I failed all of them."

She turned away then, the tears she was trying to hide evident in the curve of her shoulders and rapid breathing. Jon stepped toward her with half a mind to offer what reassurance he could, but she spoke again before he could reach her.

"Bran used to tell stories about Winterfell," her voice held traces of her tears but was otherwise surprisingly steady, "About Robb and Rickon and Arya and you and Sansa… He would tell us how you always did what was right, just like your father, more so than any of them. And I know, I know what I'm asking isn't right but… Please. _Please_ believe me. You must leave him here."

* * *

Jon didn't sleep that night. Each time he closed his eyes he was faced with images of ravens and dragons and wights and Eddard Stark's decapitated head gaping at him from a rusted spike. He would watch all five of his siblings freeze as he walked away, their bodies contorting and reaching out to him for help. Then the _nothing_ that was death would swallow the dream whole and he would wake to his own laboured breathing and a searing pain in his chest.

He told Edd of his decision in the early hours of the morning when he'd given up on sleep entirely. His old friend didn't seem surprised with the news. Jon didn't know if he found that reassuring or not. They hammered out the details while they broke their fast and waited for the sun to rise. As the representatives from the various Houses began to join them, Jon took his leave and made the trek back to the Weirwood tree with Ghost by his side.

Bran and Meera were just returning from taking Bran for a piss when he arrived. He watched Meera bind his brother's legs gently once his trousers were back in place and move him back to the shelter of their tent before she turned her attention to tending the fire. Despite their conversation yesterday, there was no trace of resentment or disgust in her movements. In fact, the two of them seemed completely comfortable with the procedure. Jon couldn't help but feel he was interrupting something intimate.

Ghost bounded forward, announcing their presence by bumping his head against Meera's gloved hand.

"Lady Meera," he greeted as the young woman looked up, "Bran."

Meera scrambled to her feet, brushing snow and soot from her knees. "Your Grace, I didn't expect you again so soon."

To Jon's surprise she didn't seem at all troubled by Ghost, although she had mentioned travelling with Summer, so perhaps it wasn't so surprising after all.

"You've made your decision." Bran's voice was as mild as ever.

Steeling himself, Jon moved to kneel before his brother and nodded. "I have. May I see it?"

Bran offered his arm in response, pulling back the layers of cloth to reveal the skin below. Jon had been expecting it, but it was a shock nonetheless. The handprint was the same unnatural blue as the wights' eyes which haunted his dreams and burned into otherwise unblemished flesh. Jon found himself unwilling to touch it, but he had no doubt it would be as frigid as the winter snows the White Walkers commanded.

"You know I can't bring you home," Jon forced himself to meet his brother's eyes as he spoke, "You know I can't take that risk. I'm sorry, Bran."

Bran held his gaze, his face as serene as ever, and Jon got the sense that his little brother was looking right through him. "I understand."

"The Night's Watch will look after you," Jon wasn't sure who he was trying to convince, but he carried on regardless, "And as soon as I know it's safe, I'll bring you home. I promise."

"Then I will see you on that day," Bran tucked the mark away again and turned his gaze to the leaves of the Weirwood tree above them, "Goodbye, Jon."

Jon stood shakily, unsure of what else to do. "I'll see you soon," he promised, but Bran seemed not to hear him. Turning to Meera, he saw the sadness had returned to her eyes, "Will you be staying here or…"

"I need to go home."

"I'll let you say your goodbyes, then," Jon nodded before retreating awkwardly to the treeline.

As he waited for the girl to join him, Jon attempted to ease his guilt by giving some final orders to the Night's Watchmen standing guard just beyond the clearing. If the looks of pity they gave him were any indication, the true purpose of those orders did not go unnoticed. Fortunately, Meera joined them quickly. Her eyes were damp, but she looked at him with gratitude all the same as they began the walk back to Castle Black.

"You are your father's son, Jon," Bran's disembodied voice floated after them.


	13. THE RIGHTFUL QUEEN

**THE RIGHTFUL QUEEN**

Daenerys III

When she was a girl, long ago at that fuzzy age where the forgotten years as a babe bleed into childhood memories, the canals in Braavos had frozen. Ser Willem had kept her and Viserys indoors for days despite their protests, with the red door firmly closed against the chill. It was the coldest Daenerys could remember being, as much as one can trust the rememberings of a child, and had defined her understanding of winter for years to come. The armada had been sailing north for more than a full moon now, and each day that lifelong definition had been forced to change.

The Shivering Sea lived up to its moniker. Mountains of ice drifted on the currents, icy winds churned up ocean spray so cold it burned when it came in contact with flesh, and snow had to be swept continuously from the ships' decks. During the day the sun fought a few rays of light through the clouds, but it could only fight for so long until night won out and brought with it a darkness the likes of which the young Queen had never encountered before. Neither the stars nor the moon above seemed strong enough to light the inky black, or perhaps they had forsaken the frozen North altogether.

It was in that unnatural blackness that they had lost their first ships. While at anchor one night, screams and shouts of panic had begun drifting across the frozen sea. The currents had carried an iceberg through the sleeping fleet and by the time the sun finally clawed its way through the clouds once more, four ships had been lost to the icy depths. The Ironborn had done their best, but a few frozen corpses were all they had been able to retrieve from the ocean's grasp.

By unspoken agreement, Yara Greyjoy had taken command of the fleet after that. She had the ships spread out, the captains of each instructed in the best methods for determining the true size of the surrounding icebergs, and the Queen herself was given the task of clearing away unavoidable obstructions with dragonfire. As such, Daenerys had spent the better part of the last three weeks in the air, soaked through from snow and sleet and ocean spray as she huddled against Drogon's scales for warmth.

When not in the air, the Queen had spent the bulk of her time learning all she could about the North and its people. A grim and hardened people, Lord Tyrion had called them. Honourable, honest and loyal to their own, according to Theon Greyjoy. An older kingdom, the eunuch Varys had explained, descendants of the First Men and the only kingdom never conquered by the Andals. The land itself was described as harsh but hardly barren, and the people akin to the Dornish and Ironborn in terms of independence from the Crown. Jon Snow, the self-proclaimed King in the North, had been the other major topic of conversation thus far. A bastard raised among wolves who had somehow found his way into power. Despite the situation of his birth, neither Lord Tyrion nor Theon Greyjoy seemed surprised to hear of his accomplishments, something which put the Queen somewhat on edge about the situation.

Varys was of no help either. When asked, he had confessed to knowing little of Jon Snow save for his existence.

"The boy was taken north as an infant at the war's end," he had explained, "And I'm afraid the birds do sing more softly in the North."

Daenerys had been only too happy to point out that for all his webs and birds and songs, both she and this Jon Snow had gone unnoticed by him. The expression he had responded with had been unreadable, but she considered the fact that he reacted at all a minor victory.

She'd asked after Northerners from Lady Olenna and the Dornish delegation as well, and here the reports were less flattering. Olenna Tyrell spoke of simple minds and a foolish dedication to honour, while Ellaria Sand explained the resentment left over from the fate of Princess Elia and her children and the death of Ser Arthur Dayne at the hand of Eddard Stark.

"The wolf bitch seduced your brother, and he abandoned his wife and babes to chase her into war."

In the end, Daenerys decided, the Northmen sounded very much like any other men, and they had quite suddenly become the least of her worries.

Varys and Lord Tyrion may be joined at the hip in their spare time, but rarely did they approach her together. This morning, however, when Oorri Elle Nuura had responded to the knock at her chamber door, it had been both men seeking an audience with her. Their news was… unfortunate. Varys had received word that the Lannister army, with Jaime Lannister at its head, had marched straight past King's Landing upon their return from the Riverlands and continued on toward the Reach.

Cersei Lannister was truly a coward.

The false Queen's intentions did not impress Lady Olenna. Daenerys had gathered her primary advisors in her chambers once again and seen them settled around the large wooden table to discuss all possible courses of action. Unsurprisingly, the Queen of Thorns was wasting no time making her opinions clear. Her continued support was now contingent on Highgarden's safety.

"You believe yourself a dragon," she addressed her Queen in her usual brusque manner, "Act like one. Jaime Lannister is the cock Cersei wishes she had. Cut it off."

"We're hardly two days away from White Harbour, Your Grace," Varys was mild as ever, "Would it be wise for our forces to land in enemy territory without our Queen and her dragons?"

"You aren't here to rule over ashes," Lord Tyrion added.

"If your brother wasn't leading them, would you still let them live?" one of the Sand Snake girls snorted mockingly.

"If we start burning our enemies, how are we any better than the tyrants who came before?"

"Well, perhaps you would agree to the dragons crushing them then? Or having the Dothraki cut them down?"

"It's not the manner of death that — "

"This is war. War mean death. Death is death, no matter how you die," Grey Worm pointed out.

"Is sending our Queen, alone, over hostile lands truly the best course of action?"

"Dovaogēdys _**[1]**_ will sail beneath our Queen — "

"Not if you intend to rejoin the fleet, you won't," Yara Greyjoy cut in, "We've already fished enough of your frozen corpses from the sea. Staying over the sea _would_ offer you some protection, however, Your Grace."

"You will sail beneath our Queen."

"We'll do no such thing. Believe me, I want to watch Lannisters burn as much as the next girl, but I'll not send my men on that suicide trip."

"Enough," Daenerys spoke over the chatter, her voice leaving no room for argument. At once, the room quieted as her advisors turned their attention toward her expectantly, "Lady Greyjoy, staying over the sea, how long would you estimate a flight to Highgarden would take?"

Yara considered the question for a moment. "That depends, Your Grace. Are you capable of resting and eating without needing to land?"

Daenerys frowned as she considered the question. Eating would surely be a nonissue, endless provisions could be packed on Drogon without weighing him down. She knew from her days spent clearing paths for the armada that the trip would be wet and cold, but Drogon's natural warmth made that bearable at least. Rest… She thought back to tales Viserys had told her as a child featuring dragons clad in armour and saddled like common horses by their riders… Perhaps a simple tie down could be fashioned to keep her in place while she slept? It would not be comfortable, but she hardly needed a full night's rest… No, the problem would be pissing in flight, among other bodily functions. But that was not a problem a Queen would ever admit to.

"Yes," she replied, simply, "A rope of some kind could be used to ensure I could sleep without worry."

"Will Drogon allow that?" Lord Tyrion asked, his endless curiosity outweighing his trepidation toward the plan for a moment.

"I will have to be with him when it is put on, but yes, I imagine so," the young Queen answered.

"Then I'd wager you could make it to Highgarden in a week, perhaps slightly less if you travelled up the Dornish Sea and across the Marshes rather than circumventing Dorne," Lady Greyjoy informed her.

Daenerys nodded thoughtfully. "And how long will the march from White Harbour to Winterfell take, approximately?"

"With much of the forces travelling by foot, perhaps a month at best?" Tyrion guessed.

"Very well," the Queen rose from her seat at the head of the table and faced the group, "When we land at White Harbour I will disembark with you and I will remain with you until the march is underway. Only then will I fly to Highgarden. With the castle secured and Cersei Lannister's army destroyed, I will return to join the march before we arrive at Winterfell. There, I will give the North the opportunity to bend the knee and join us on the march to King's Landing, where I will reclaim what is mine by right."

* * *

Wrapped in layer after layer of fur and topped with a fine dusting of snow, Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, The rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, The rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm shivered in anticipation as the boat ground to a halt on the frozen shore. Closing her eyes, she stepped forward, relishing the crunch of ice beneath her boot as she took her first steps on Westerosi soil. This was the land she was meant to rule. This was the realm her ancestors had built. This was home. She was _home_.

White Harbour stretched out before her, silent and unmoving. It was a large city, larger than she had been expecting and well maintained, yet it seemed completely deserted. Buildings constructed of whitewashed rock with steeply slanted roofs made up most of the cityscape, intersected by large swaths of piled snow which likely hid streets of some sort. The docks were deserted as well, ships left to the mercy of the winds and waves with snow and ice coating their decks. Some smaller boats were even trapped in place by frozen seawater.

"Finne hash ei jin chomak?" _**[2]**_ one of her bloodriders, Qhono, asked as he stepped gingerly onto the icy shore.

"I agree with Braids," Yara Greyjoy piped up as she disembarked her own ship with far more ease, "White Harbour is many things, but it's never quiet."

Daenerys glanced at the other woman sharply, their conversation on the day of Ser Davos' arrival coming back to her abruptly and sending a jolt of suspicion through her. But speaking of Ser Davos, the Queen's realization was cut short as the man joined them all on the shore with his usual affable smile.

"His Grace ordered all his people to gather at Winterfell to see the winter through," he explained, casually, "We're not likely to come across anyone until we reach the castle."

_Which was something you could have mentioned earlier_, the Queen thought sourly. The ships were packed with food and provisions, of course, but the added time at sea had put an unexpected strain on their stores and add to that another month of hard marching… That clawing feeling of having perhaps misread a situation worked its way up her spine. They couldn't turn back if they wanted to. Either the so-called King in the North was a lucky man, or he'd forced their hand. But, in the end, there was nothing for it. They would march on as planned. The North would kneel and, supplemented by their provisions, they would march on King's Landing and she would take her rightful place on the Iron Throne.

The process of bringing her army ashore was a tedious affair. Despite being reasonably large, White Harbour's docks — and indeed the bay itself — could not support the entire fleet at one time. As such, small groups of ships would dock, unload their passengers and supplies, then sail out of the bay with only a skeleton crew who would then row to another ship and the process would repeat itself. By the time everyone was on solid ground for good, night had fallen.

Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, The rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, The rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm spent her first night in Westeros since her birth camped out in an abandoned building surrounded by a frozen wasteland.

* * *

She was awoken the next morning by the screeching of an impatient Drogon, who had landed near the docks with his brothers. The dragons were squabbling over some unidentifiable chunks of meat when she approached, splashing through a massive muddy puddle that had been snow and ice before the heat of their bodies and breath melted it away. Never had her description of them as her children seemed more apt. Drogon stormed toward her the moment he saw her, wings flaring and tail slinging mud at some unfortunate Unsullied soldiers who had been tasked with flanking her. Rhaegal and Viserion cried out in greeting but otherwise remained focused on their meal.

Daenerys, for her part, hushed her son gently as she raised a hand to stroke Drogon's massive snout. "Easy, my love," she told him, "Soon, we'll be off."

"He seems eager."

Turning around, the young Queen spotted her Hand picking his way toward her through the mud. "Lord Tyrion," she greeted, "Yes, dragons are not predisposed to sitting still."

Tyrion gazed up at her children with undisclosed awe. He'd told her about his lifelong fascination with dragons during their months at sea, and she found his utter admiration of them one of his most endearing traits. He was one of very few people who were able to touch them on occasion and whose presence they seemed to enjoy. Rhaegal and Viserion, in particular, always seemed happy to receive him. Even now they squawked in greeting as he approached, something which drew a genuine smile from the little man. Seeing the expression now only served to remind her how rarely it seemed to grace his scarred face.

"You still disapprove," she sighed, broaching the subject which hung over both of them bluntly, "Is it truly a matter of morality that has you hesitant, or simply your brother's safety?"

Her Hand considered the question quietly, and Daenerys saw the moment when he decided on the truth in the slump of his shoulders. "Jaime was my only friend, all my life. He was the only one who saw me as a person…"

Turning back to Drogon, the young Queen forced down the hatred Viserys had ingrained in her toward the man who cut down their father. Lashing out at Tyrion would get her nowhere, he had served her well thus far and was her most valuable ally in keeping the Spider in check… "And yet you chose to serve me," she said instead, "Knowing full well what my intentions were and what I would think of the man who murdered my father."

There was another pause, and she heard the squelching of mud as Tyrion moved toward her before he spoke again. "I did," he agreed, "And I stand by my choice. You will be a great Queen, Your Grace. You can bring a peace and stability that Westeros hasn't had in generations. I believe that. Only…"

His voice trailed off, and Daenerys turned to him at last.

"Only what?" she prompted, eyeing him sharply.

Tyrion's mismatched eyes were suspiciously wet, but he held her gaze all the same. "He's a good man, Your Grace. Please, don't let him suffer."

* * *

_**1\. **Unsullied  
__**2\. **Where are all the people?_


	14. THE CHILDREN OF WAR

**THE CHILDREN OF WAR**

Sansa III

Sansa Stark was excited.

It had been years since she'd experienced genuine excitement and the sensation was accompanied by nostalgia that, for the first time since she had set foot inside Winterfell as a free woman once more, was not tainted by pain and loss. A raven from Jon had arrived from Castle Black a week ago announcing their return after a successful trip and, if her calculations were correct, the travel time of mounted men compared to that of a raven in flight meant they should arrive in Winterfell within the day or tomorrow at the latest. There were so many things she should be planning to discuss with her King, but from the moment the raven arrived, Sansa found herself thinking only as a younger sister who held the greatest of all surprises for her siblings.

She hadn't told Arya about Jon's return. Her little sister knew that he was up north, but was not expecting him soon. If anything, they had avoided the topic of their brother for the most part. Sansa had caught the fear that had flashed through her sister's briefly unguarded eyes at the mention of Jon before being locked away again, and she understood. Arya had changed. They all had. And she was so very close to the one person who had always known her best… The fear was understandable, but it only served to heighten her sister's excitement. Just this once, she would be the one to bring her siblings joy.

Sansa spent her morning as she did most days; taking supplicants in the Great Hall, reviewing resources and the allotment thereof, and meeting with various Lords and Ladies. Baelish hovered on the periphery as she worked and stole the first moment she was alone for himself.

"Lady Sansa," he greeted with a slight bow.

"Lord Baelish," she returned politely, glancing up from the grain records she had been going over, "Do you have news for me?"

"Indeed," Baelish produced two small scrolls from his pocket and set them before her, "Word from the South. Daenerys Targaryen did not land at Dragonstone as expected, rather she appears to have continued northward."

Sansa kept her face carefully neutral even as she cursed her brother for leaving her with this mess in the first place. Thinking quickly, she allowed a slight frown to form. "She has the support of the Ironborn," she pointed out, "Surely they would have suggested the Iron Islands as a more viable destination? Dragonstone and its people fell under the Crown's command after the death of Stannis Baratheon."

Littlefinger inclined his head in apparent agreement. "I'll look into the possibility at once."

"Very good. Was there anything else, My Lord?"

"Yes," Baelish nodded, "It appears Cersei Lannister is moving to take Highgarden. Her forces are marching on the Reach even now."

Sansa considered that bit of information for a moment. While unexpected, it was not really surprising. Cersei Lannister, for all her claims of political prowess and cunning, was an emotional woman. The Tyrells had wronged her more recently than her family had, and it stood to reason that those wrongs — in addition to the crippling debts incurred by the Crown that she had heard Tyrion discussing during their marriage — would make the Reach a higher priority than the North. And with the Dragon Queen sure to be landing in White Harbour any day, Highgarden would be ripe for the taking… Good, the more time Cersei spent fighting in the South, the more time they had to broker Jon's, frankly mad, alliance.

"Keep me informed of happenings in the Reach as best you can," she told Baelish, calmly, "With luck, they'll weaken each other."

"Of course, My Lady," her mentor replied, "Also, your cousin has been asking after you. It seems he quite enjoys your walks."

Sansa smiled more honestly at that. She had been joining Robin to build snow castles in the Godswood with some regularity since their reunion more than a moon ago, an activity they both referred to as 'walks' to anyone who asked. Her cousin's memories of Littlefinger and his relationship with Lysa were proving most intriguing, and the boy was becoming almost pleasant company. "I enjoy them as well," she replied, "Please inform him that once the King has returned, I would be glad to join him again."

"I'm certain he will be thrilled," Baelish bowed as he stepped back from the High Table, having obviously heard the dismissal in her tone, "Good day, Lady Sansa."

The Lady of Winterfell watched him leave with the now-familiar feeling of unease that his presence always brought about twisting in her gut.

"Slimy cunt."

Sansa startled as her sister all but materialized next to her. "Arya, what in Seven Hells!?"

Arya made no effort to hide her amusement as she smirked at her sister's expense. "There was a third raven," she kept her mirth out of her voice, at least, "No seal, but I imagine he knows more about whatever it is you're up to with the Targaryen girl than he's letting on."

Sansa sighed and allowed herself the luxury of pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. _Fantastic_. "Not me. Jon."

"Ah," Arya didn't seem at all surprised, "An alliance then. And he hasn't yet told the other Lords."

The familiar pang of something that could be jealousy, which reared its head whenever she was reminded of the closeness Jon and Arya shared, coursed through her but Sansa let it go. They were all they had left, and she would keep them together if it killed her. And it may well do just that. "He's not wrong to try," she said, the resignation in her voice evident even to her, "But it's such a risk…"

Arya shrugged. "Not to Jon, it isn't," she said easily, "He believes in people. We don't."

And wasn't that just the truth of it? Somehow, despite everything he had been through, despite the betrayals he'd suffered, despite being properly _murdered_, Jon still believed in people. He still believed in goodness. It was part of what made him Jon and she loved him for it, even if it drove her mad. "You shouldn't be out in the open," she said at last, "Wait for me in my chambers this evening, we can talk in private. Bring the boy, Gendry, as well. I'd like to have a word with him."

Arya nodded once and disappeared without a word, just as suddenly as she had appeared. Sansa didn't bother trying to work out how she did it.

* * *

Daylight was well and truly fading, and Sansa had resigned herself to having to find an excuse to get Arya into her chambers again tomorrow, when news of the King's return reached her. She didn't run to meet him in Winterfell's courtyard, but it was a near thing. Her excitement returned in full force as she hurried out into the snow.

Even in the waning light, she could see that the group that rode into the courtyard held themselves differently than the one that had left it. Men who had left with boisterous laughter and ruddy smiles were now grim-faced and tight-lipped, their pallor a shade too pale and their eyes framed by a darkness brought on by insufficient sleep. Young Lyanna Mormont sat ramrod straight atop her horse, a steely determination etched in her still childlike features along with something that just may have been fear.

There was another girl as well, one the Lady of Winterfell did not recognize, who rode at Jon's elbow. She was dressed in wildling — no, free folk — furs and hunched in her saddle, exhaustion clinging to her so heavily that she seemed truly ill. And Jon… Jon looked lighter, somehow. He was pale and obviously worn, but there was a sense of peace about him which could only mean one thing. The dead lived, indeed. Despite all reason, she found that the revelation brought her a fraction of relief.

Brienne joined her as the travellers began dismounting their horses, her eyes tracking young Podrick's movements. Sansa smiled to herself but did not comment. Jon, predictably, offered his hand to assist the women off their horses. Lady Lyanna, just as predictably, refused, but the stranger seemed grateful and allowed him to steady her as she touched the icy ground. They spoke quietly for a moment before Jon gestured for Podrick to approach.

"Podrick, could you escort Lady Meera to Maester Wolkan's chambers?" he asked, never one for a direct order where a request would do.

Sansa filed the name away for later and nodded her blessing to Brienne as her sworn sword made to accompany her squire. Only then did the two siblings lock eyes. Sansa moved first, crossing the distance between them and embracing her brother gently even as she fought to keep the excitement off her face and out of her step.

"Sansa," Jon was the first to pull away, uncertainty flickering in his dark eyes, "I have news I must share with you — "

But the Lady of Winterfell held up a hand to stop him. "Is time of the essence?"

Her brother blinked, his brow furrowed in confusion, "No, but — "

"Then it can wait," Sansa smiled in an attempt at reassurance, "Come, I've something I've been wanting to show you."

And Gods bless Jon, the King in the North fell into step obediently beside her.

Sansa led them all the way to her chambers before Jon held out a hand to stop her.

"I expected a different reception," he said softly, letting his hand fall back to his side.

His sister frowned. Surely he didn't mean more fanfare? Jon hated attention of that sort, even _she_ knew that… "How do you mean?"

His discomfort was obvious in his refusal to meet her eyes. "Nothing. Forgive me, it was a lengthy journey and I suppose I'm rather tired…"

Sansa moved to catch his eye and did her best impersonation of the expression her mother used to use when she wanted the truth from them as children. "Jon…"

Heaving a sigh, Jon relented. "I half expected angry Lords with curses on their tongues…"

"Why?" Sansa asked, confused. Unless… Oh. _Oh._ "You thought I'd tell them all of your plans with the Dragon Queen?"

Jon looked away again, and Sansa felt something cold settle in her gut.

"You did. Seven Hells, Jon, is that what you truly think of me? That I'd betray you over what? A disagreement?"

"No!" said Jon quickly, almost too quickly, "No. Only…" he tugged a hand through his damp hair, exhaustion rolling off him in waves as he continued in a halting voice. "I don't trust everyone, you know. But the people I do trust… There was a boy at the Night's Watch. He had no one, so I tried to help him, tried to teach him… I cared about him. I trusted him… It was him, Sansa. He was the one who came to me and lied to me and led me to… To where they did it. I wouldn't have gone with any of the others. I didn't trust them. Not like that. And they knew that. They used the boy and in the end it was him who…" He broke off, one hand ghosting over the place where the wounds marred his heart. "Being back there, I started thinking… Forgive me, Sansa. It was a foolish thought."

The chill in her gut grew at her brother's words, although for a completely different reason. They were all so damned broken. "There's nothing to forgive," she repeated his words from Castle Black back to him, gently, "I'm so sorry, Jon." She reached out, taking his hands in her own and squeezing them. "If I have a concern or disagree with something you've done or plan to do, I will come to you and I will tell you. I swear it."

The smile Jon gave her was grateful and true. "As do I."

"Good," Sansa allowed some of her quickly returning excitement to creep into her expression, "Now, enough of that, I have a surprise for you."

Pushing her chamber door open, she stepped through first and took in the sight of her sister lounging comfortably by the fire while she chatted with the blacksmith, Gendry. Arya stood up at her arrival, but whatever words may have been on her lips fell away the moment she realized what was happening. Jon, who had followed her into the room, froze in the doorway at the sight of his youngest sister. There passed a beat of stillness before he turned to Sansa, his lips slightly parted, and an almost childlike expression on his face as he sought… reassurance, perhaps? Or permission?

Either way, Sansa's cheeks ached from the grin she wore. "Welcome home."

They didn't run to each other. They didn't laugh or smile and Arya didn't jump into Jon's arms as Sansa, herself, had back at Castle Black. In fact, their reunion was silent in a way that seemed almost reverent and when they met in the middle of the room their embrace left Sansa feeling as though she was intruding. Arya raised herself up on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck while Jon buried his face in his sister's hair, his hands clutching her cloak tightly. Jon's back was to her, but Arya's chin rested on his shoulder and there was a look of peace on her face the likes of which Sansa had never seen before. She got the sense that, if the world would only allow it, they would stay like that forever.

But the world rarely seemed to take the desires of her family into account, and Jon and Arya broke apart after a long moment. They stood at arm's length, their fingers still intertwined between them as they drank in the sight of each other in silence.

"You still have it," Jon broke the spell their reunion had cast at last, nodding to the sword on her waist.

Arya slipped the blade from its sheath and held it out to him. "Always."

Jon traced his fingers along the metal's edge. "Who have you been fighting?"

"Everyone," Arya's voice was grim, "And no one at all." She gestured toward the scars around her brother's eyes as she tucked her sword away once more. "Those aren't from a blade."

"An eagle," Jon shrugged as though it was commonplace. Perhaps it was north of the Wall? "I thought you were dead. Arya…"

"I'm not easy to kill."

Jon stared for a moment before he started to laugh, loud and true, for the first time in Sansa's recollection. "Come, sit. Both of you. Tell me everything." He turned to move toward the hearth and stopped abruptly. "Who are you?"

"Uh," Gendry stammered, looking around helplessly as the King's gaze pinned him in place, "I, umm…"

Sansa took pity on the boy. "Jon, this is Gendry Waters."

The smith shot Arya a panicked look that only served to confirm her sister's suspicions. "It's just Gendry, m'Lady. Arry — that is — Lady Arya said you wished to speak to me. I didn't mean to intrude — "

"Relax, you stupid bull," Arya sighed, "Sansa, here, thinks she's clever. Go on then, how did you work it out?"

Sansa smirked at her sister without shame. "He's the spitting image of the Demon of the Trident from song and story. He's the proper age, born in the proper place and fled King's Landing precisely when Joffrey ordered all King Robert's bastards slaughtered. And he's quite determined to remind everyone he's not but a bastard, almost too determined…"

"You're Robert Baratheon's boy?" Jon asked, studying him closely.

"I… Yes. At least, I think so. It's what I've been told…"

"By whom?"

Exchanging another glance with Arya, Gendry sighed. "The Red Woman, I don't know her name, and Stannis Baratheon. They wanted to use my blood for some sort of magic. There's power in king's blood, they told me… Not that I'm a king. I'm not. I'm nothing at all, just a smith — "

"Gendry, was it?" Jon cut him off gently, continuing when the other man nodded, "I take it you're friendly with my sister?"

"He is," Arya confirmed.

Jon nodded. "Then I'm glad to meet you, Gendry Waters," he held out his hand with a smile, "Jon Snow."

Gendry clasped the outstretched hand tentatively, a little smile working its way onto his face as well. "And you, Your Grace. Arya's told me all about you."

"Gods, I hope not," Jon chuckled, "You must tell me how you met one day, but for now could I trouble you for a moment alone with my sisters?"

"Of course, Your Grace," Gendry nearly bolted for the door, much to Arya's amusement, and disappeared into the hall beyond without a backward glance.

* * *

Sansa was warm in a way she had not been in years, not since her mother last tucked her into her furs despite her protests. And _Gods,_ she shouldn't have protested… She had forgone her chair for a fur by the hearth some time ago, shortly after her wine glass had given way to a tankard of ale, and she had allowed herself to stretch out further and further with each drink that followed. Jon lounged in a chair nearby, a lazy smile on his face and his own tankard held loosely in his hand as he spoke of the grim Dolorous Edd and the shenanigans of Grenn and Pyp and banter with Sam. Arya was curled tightly in yet another chair, looking the soberest of all of them, as she listened to their brother's tales with interest. That wasn't fair, Sansa decided, Arya was _little_ she should be the drunkest!

"You're not drinkin'," Sansa pointed in her sister's general direction and tried her best to form an accusatory glare.

Arya smirked and raised her tankard mockingly. "I'm plenty drunk, someone needs to make certain you two don't sleep in your own sick tonight."

Jon snorted into his ale. "Tormund says if yer not sick, yer not celebrating."

" 'm not sick," Sansa protested.

"And I'm not celebrating," Arya added, sarcastically.

Jon leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. "I swear I used to dream of Gendry," he mused.

Arya stared at him for a moment before she started to laugh, a proper, hysterical laugh that had both her siblings joining in without really knowing why. "Well, he's a fairly open-minded fellow, I could suggest it to him."

Jon looked confused for a moment before his mind caught up to his mouth. "No. Gods, Arya, I only meant he looks like King Robert did in my dreams 'crept without the crabs."

Sansa frowned, her ale-soaked mind slogging to keep up. "Why're we talkin' 'bout crabs?"

Arya was still grinning. "Yes, Jon, why are we talking about crabs?" she teased.

Jon closed his eyes. "There were crabs in the Keep and a white egg in the sand and a Dornish girl in the snow."

"Annnd, that's enough ale for you," Arya laughed.

But Sansa was curious. And warm. And comfortable. And a bit sleepy. "I dreamed I was Lady," she reminisced fondly, "Those were good dreams."

"I do that too," Arya straightened up some, "Not Lady, obviously, but Nymeria. I see what she sees, even when I was in Braavos. Snow and ships docking and dragons overhead…"

"Wargs, that's what the free folk call 'em. They look through animals' eyes. I killed one once, that was the eagle that gave me these." Jon gestured vaguely at the scars around his eyes, "I think I do it too, with Ghost."

Sansa frowned and tried her best to take in the information, but memories of Lady kept distracting her. The beginning of the end. Her poor Lady. "I miss her…"

Something flickered across Arya's face. If she'd been sober Sansa was sure she could have recognized it, but as it was she let it go in favour of taking another mouthful of ale. A comfortable silence engulfed them and Sansa drifted, carefree, on the buzz of alcohol in her head.

"What's it like?" Arya's voice tugged her back from the muddled warmth of her mind some time later, "Death, I mean."

Jon's eyes fluttered open, something more than just drink clouding them. "It's just…" he began, clearly struggling to find the words, "Nothing. It's just nothing. It's not dark, but there's no light. It's not cold, but there's no warmth. It's not quiet, but there's no noise… You're not there, but you're somewhere… And it clings to you. I can still feel it, inside me, all the time… I shouldn't be here…" He shook his head roughly and turned away, dragging a hand over his face.

Sansa thanked the Gods she was drunk, that meant the tear she watched slide down his cheek wasn't real. " 'm glad you are," she whispered.


	15. THE DEBTS WE PAY

**THE DEBTS WE PAY**

Brienne II

Despite his obvious exhaustion, Podrick had insisted on joining her on guard duty. They had spoken at length the night before and more than his words it had been the fear in his eyes and the restless sleep that followed which had left her convinced. The dead lived. Her squire had reported all that he had seen and been told at Castle Black with the bleak efficiency customary of terrible truths. The living corpse of a child bound in chains and impervious to all but fire. Ancient weapons forged from dragonglass by the First Men and tales of the ice monsters they were reputed to kill. An army of endless soldiers which took fallen enemies as its own… Never had she so wished a ruler was simply mad.

It seemed almost pointless, considering what they now knew to be true, that her duties had not changed overnight. As she had so many times before, Brienne found herself and Podrick positioned at attention on either side of a closed door. Today, that door was the entrance to the small meeting room above the Great Hall wherein the woman she was charged with protecting was taking a meeting. His Grace and Lady Sansa had instructed her to keep watch while they spoke in private with the strange girl who had ridden in with the travellers from Castle Black. The girl, Lady Meera of House Reed, according to Podrick, appeared to have reaped the benefits of a warm bed, a good meal and whatever care the maester had offered her. While she was still dressed in her free folk furs, her colour was much improved from the day before.

The occasional word made it past the heavy wooden door, but Brienne kept to her duty and paid them no mind. Podrick, on the other hand, had no such restraint and had angled his stance slightly so as to improve his ability to listen. Brienne frowned. She'd broken the lad of most of the unfortunate habits he had developed as Lord Tyrion's squire, but listening at closed doors was proving the most difficult to eradicate. She was poised to reprimand him, yet again, for his behaviour when Lady Sansa's voice rose loud enough to trickle into the hallway as a whisper.

"… left him!"

Brienne paused. Surely, in the interest of protecting her charge, it would not be entirely inappropriate to listen for signs of conflict within the meeting? Carefully avoiding the amused glint in Podrick's eyes, she shuffled marginally closer to the door.

"… tree… children… three eye…"

"… see… followed…"

"… home… freeze…"

"… Night King…"

The voices merged into incoherent murmurs for a moment and Brienne pulled herself away forcefully. Damn her bloody squire, putting reprehensible notions in her head.

"Podrick," she hissed at him as she straightened her stance.

The boy had the good sense to seem abashed, at least, as he followed her lead and shifted back to a more respectful distance from the door. With their guard duty now resumed in earnest, both Brienne and her squire noted the approach of another well in advance. The footfalls suggested someone of reasonable size, but without the clinking of armour, and they were alone. Still, when one of Winterfell's smiths came into sight, Brienne was somewhat surprised. At least, she supposed he was a smith; he had the look. What business could he have in the main Keep at this hour?

"State your name and purpose," Brienne ordered calmly, although made certain her stance indicated she was not someone to be trifled with.

The young man stopped well out of her range and shifted uncomfortably as he glanced between the two armed guards. "Um, His Grace an' Lady Sansa requested I join them here?" he replied, the uncertainty in his voice turning what he obviously meant as a statement into more of a question.

"The King and Lady Stark are in a meeting, at present," Brienne informed that stranger, "You may wait here."

Nodding in thanks, the smith slid down the wall opposite them to rest on the stone floor and Brienne took the time to look him over more closely. His years of labour were easily measured in the calluses on his hands and in his skin, whose colouring was long forgotten beneath the ruddy hues brought on by the heat of the forge. Clear blue eyes offered a sharp contrast to the grime which characterized his profession, while hair as black as coal seemed befitting of it. Although young, he was a large lad. Standing well over six feet, his broad shoulders and heavy movement spoke of power as well as size. In armour, he would undoubtedly be a commanding figure who bore a striking similarity to —

Brienne stopped the thought there. The King she had loved was dead and avenged, and it was not in her nature to pine after lowborn blacksmiths with a passing resemblance.

"That's fine armour, m'Lady," the youth interrupted her self admonishment, "Off the Rock, I think?"

"I should think so," Brienne agreed even as it occurred to her she'd never thought to question where Ser Jaime had had it commissioned, "It was a gift."

"And the sword?" He gestured at Oathkeeper on her hip, "That's Master Mott's work, without question."

"The same," Brienne replied, "A gift."

"You've good friends," the smith surmised, "Or rich ones. Tobho must have charged Jaime Lannister's golden hand and a foot to boot for work like that. Benefits of being the only man in the Seven Kingdoms who can work Valyrian steel."

"You know Tobho Mott?" Podrick spoke up curiously.

"Aye," the other lad shrugged, "I apprenticed under him for a time."

"Valyrian steel is one of only two substances known to kill the White Walkers!" Podrick explained excitedly, "Is that why the King wishes to speak with you?"

"Uh…" the boy's uncertainty came pouring back, but the wooden door swinging open behind them saved him from his obvious discomfort.

The girl Podrick had referred to as Meera Reed stepped out into the hall with Lady Sansa and King Jon at her heels. Brienne watched as she shook both of their hands and to her surprise Lady Sansa pulled her into a quick embrace while whispering something that may have been thanks in her ear before she took her leave.

"Gendry," His Grace addressed the smith once Lady Meera had disappeared down the hall, "Thank you for joining us. Come, sit."

The three of them stepped into the meeting room once more, leaving Brienne and Podrick to their duty, and if her squire positioned himself just a step or two closer to the closed door than was appropriate, well, Brienne didn't mention it.

* * *

To King Jon's credit, he allowed hardly any time for rumours of what the expedition North had yielded to grow out of hand. It would have been easy to rely on word of mouth alone and allow fear to fester and spread but, as was quickly becoming apparent even this early into his rule, that was not the King's way. Instead, on the second day since their return, he had summoned his bannermen to gather in the Great Hall. There was no feast to accompany it — a testament to the strictness of the rationing put in place by his Lady sister — and the discussion was grim, yet when Brienne looked out over the crowd she saw no sign of the murmurs and questions that often accompanied these sorts of gatherings.

His Grace, Lady Lyanna Mormont, Podrick and the other men who had ventured north stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the High Table and recounted their experiences succinctly and with conviction only the truth can hold. The King, in particular, spoke of previous encounters — of the first wight he had seen, of the slaughter at Hardhome and the Army of the Dead — in such detail that his gaze took on that faraway expression of a soldier who had witnessed the atrocities of war and saw them still when he closed his eyes. The hall was deathly silent when they finished.

With a nod, His Grace sent the others back to their seats and Podrick returned to her side, his face a few shades paler than she would have liked. If she allowed her arm to brush up against his shoulder and stay there, neither one of them mentioned it.

"The enemy to the north is real," Lady Sansa stood once her brother had returned to his seat, her voice sharp as it cut through the silence, "The dead are coming, and we must be prepared to meet them. As such, His Grace has reached out to those who may help us and prove to be valuable allies in the wars to come. The exiled Targaryen Princess, Daenerys Stormborn, and her armies landed in White Harbour some three days past — "

All traces of silence evaporated with those words as exclamations of shock and outrage overtook the gathered Lords and Ladies.

"A _Targaryen — "_

"Your grandfather — "

"The Mad King — "

"… Rhaegar raped your — "

"… three _fucking_ dragons — "

"… burn us all — "

"Enough." King Jon didn't raise his voice any more than was necessary to be heard over the competing voices, but the command was unmistakable all the same. The room fell into an uneasy silence as he stood once more to address them. "What knowledge we have of Daenerys Targaryen and her reign across Essos suggests a woman best known for her endeavours to free men, women and children from the bonds of slavery. Are these reports incomplete? Of course they are. Could she be as mad as her father? Aye, she could be. I don't know. But I know that we need more fighting men and, more importantly, the ability to weaponise fire if we have any hope of survival. In that respect we have two options: Daenerys Stormborn, her armies and her dragons, or Cersei Lannister, her army and any wildfire possibly left in the capital after she burned her own people. Which would you choose?" He sighed heavily and glanced around the hall with weary eyes before continuing in a softer tone. "Lady Lyanna, at the Wall you asked how we survive this. We survive by making peace. We survive by making allies, and by working together. It is the only way."

Yet more silence followed the King's speech as the crowd considered his words. Brienne, for her part, understood the reasoning behind his decision, but a question still plagued her.

"Your Grace?" she stepped forward, aware of all the eyes swiveling to fixate on her, "If I might ask a question?" A nod from the King invited her to continue and so she did, choosing her words carefully. "Daenerys Targaryen has not travelled this far just to help us. Surely, she intends to take back her father's throne and return the Targaryen dynasty to power."

"Aye, I've no doubt those are her intentions."

"And when she asks for the North in exchange for her help? When she commands you bend the knee and surrender your people to her?"

King Jon took a moment to consider her question as he lowered himself back into his seat. "My brother declared the North an independent kingdom the day he was named King in the North. When you honoured me with his title, you trusted me to do right by it and by the North. I will not betray that trust, nor will I betray his memory. The North is independent, now and always. On my honour, as the son of Lord Eddard Stark, I swear that to you."

* * *

It was Podrick who suggested the Godswood. With an ever-increasing number of people settling around Winterfell, finding space to train together in the week since her squire's return was proving challenging. Knights, squires, Lords, and smallfolk alike were all being armed and training to the best of their abilities in and around the castle. The King himself could often be found among the fray, sparing and offering guidance freely. From the stories she'd heard passed about the armoury, he was an excellent fighter and quite an effective teacher.

Still, training Podrick was her responsibility, and it was for that reason that they found themselves marching through the deep drifts of snow that blanketed the floor of the Godswood and the canopy of branches above. While not a follower of the Old Gods herself, Brienne could easily understand how a forest like this could capture the spirits of men and inspire devotion. With the snow as thick as it was, walking the paths was akin to travelling through a softly lit tunnel as the winter sun diffused through the snow and trees above and cast dancing patterns of light on the world below. It was utterly silent and still, with even the sound of their footfalls muffled by the snow, and Brienne found for a moment she could pretend the realms weren't at war.

A sudden chuckle from Podrick pulled her from her thoughts, and she glanced at him sharply.

"Look here," her squire replied, correctly interpreting her expression as he so often did these days, "Someone's been building."

Following his gaze, Brienne quickly found the source of his amusement. Someone had, indeed, been building. A half dozen miniature castles, constructed out of packed snow and garnished with sticks and pebbles, were scattered about a partial clearing off to the side of the trail, still visible even under the fresh fall around them. Their likenesses seemed inspired by two distinct castles, with some taking after Winterfell in appearance and the others more akin to the Eyrie, perhaps?

"They're quite good," Podrick noted, smiling.

Brienne privately agreed but saw no reason to comment and instead carried on down the path, trusting Podrick to keep up without instruction. It took only a few more turns to reach the main clearing, marked by the Weirwood tree and frozen pond at its centre, and it was only then that they discovered that they were not the only people who had sought out the space and privacy of the Godswood.

King Jon stood in the middle of the clearing, the snow at his feet cleared away by a mass of footprints and his Valyrian steel blade in his hands. He stopped midway through a quick sequence of lunges and parries as they approached and pushed sweat-soaked curls out of his face as the red leaves of the Weirwood swayed above him. "Lady Brienne," he nodded in greeting, "Podrick. Were you looking for me?"

"Pardon the intrusion, Your Grace," Brienne bowed politely, "Podrick and I were merely seeking a place to train. We'll leave you to your exercises."

"No need," the young King shook his head with a slight smile, "Podrick was most dedicated to his training during our journey to the Wall. Even in the worst of weather, I would see him practising each evening. I would never stand in the way of such a commitment to bettering oneself."

Behind her, Podrick flushed a deep red at the praise and ducked his head as he set the pack he had been carrying onto the snow.

Brienne couldn't help the bubble of fondness that rose up in her for the man her squire was becoming. "Thank you, Your Grace," she bowed once more before stooping to retrieve the practice swords from the pack at her squire's feet, "Arm yourself, Podrick."

It took no time at all for them to fall back into the familiar routine of teacher and student, with Brienne exploiting any obvious mistakes in technique and pointing them out as Podrick picked himself up off the icy ground. In truth, he had improved a great deal since she had known him, but it was not in her nature to accept any less than excellence. If her innocent, kind-hearted squire was going to fight, she would make damn sure he would not be killed over some stupid mistake.

King Jon, who had moved to wash his face in a hole cut in the frozen surface of the pond, cleared a space next to it where he sat to clean and care for his sword while watching them with quiet intensity. It was only when a powerful counter strike from Brienne sent Podrick sprawling in the snow by the King's feet that he injected himself into their training. Pulling Podrick back upright, he addressed him quietly for a moment, gesturing downward as he did so. Brienne frowned as she tried to deduce what type of instructions he was giving her squire. Something to do with footwork or stance, obviously, but while Podrick surely needed to tighten up his movement, that wouldn't have been what she considered the most pressing correction… Still, when he faced her again, her squire's eyes were alight with fresh determination.

Brienne lunged first, an exploratory movement meant to search out any differences in technique suggested by the King. Podrick parried the blow as she had taught him, pivoting left and striking at her side. Brienne shifted quickly, already anticipating the cross-back her opponent was setting up, and moving her entire body rather than pivoting in her own right to meet him. Podrick pushed forward, undeterred, slipping under her guard and launching a quick strike toward her legs that had no hope of landing. Still, the attack forced Brienne to retreat, so she turned that necessary movement into a series of quick side steps meant to circle her squire who — aside from moving forward and pivoting to keep face with her — seemed content to remain near-stationary —

Her evaluation halted abruptly as her most recent sidestep landed her weight-bearing foot on a patch of slick ice. She watched Podrick jump forward, as the world slowed down around her, with his sword at the ready as her foot slipped further out from under her. She did not fall, but the momentary loss of balance was enough that as time regained its normal speed, she felt the frigid steel of Podrick's practice blade at her throat.

"Very good."

The blinding grin Podrick turned toward the King destroyed any hint of the bitterness that usually followed defeat, and Brienne couldn't help but smile with him.

"You told him not to move?" she asked.

"In a sense," King Jon shrugged, "He was leaving openings, putting himself off balance, yet his technique was better than that. This is packed snow, melted on the surface by my feet first and now yours, and frozen again. It's a difficult enough surface to gain purchase on, even for those of us who've grown up with it underfoot, and if your feet aren't steady, no part of you is. I merely reminded him you don't have to be stronger than your opponent, only smarter, particularly in this weather."

"He also suggested moving with more of a flat foot," Podrick added, "And using your ankles and knees to keep the weight over the centre. That was much more stable, Your Grace, thank you."

His Grace waved the thanks away as he slipped his own blade back into his sword belt.

Brienne considered his words as she watched him. "Are there many kinds of snow, Your Grace?" she asked.

"Aye, hundreds," the King began, before cutting off and raising a hand for quiet.

Brienne and Podrick obeyed without question, listening intently while the branches of the Weirwood tree rustled overhead. The snow-muffled Godswood seemed suddenly oppressive in its silence as Brienne strained to pick up whatever noise had caught the King's attention. And sure enough there it was, the distinctive crunch of snowy footsteps just barely noticeable in the distance but growing closer all the time. Voices began to bleed through shortly thereafter, and Brienne was just moving to retrieve Oathkeeper when King Jon smiled.

"By the Weirwood, Sansa," he called.

Brienne just barely swallowed the urge to abolish her King for giving away his position when Lady Sansa emerged from the path flanked by a strange mix of people. A few of the guards encircling the group she knew as loyal Stark soldiers, but those were the only faces she recognized. At Lady Sansa's elbow was a callow man of considerable heft clad in black, yet well-made, clothes and cloak. The woman behind him was dressed simply, her hair unstyled and loose around her shoulders and a young child with matching brown hair and eyes held securely in her arms. Behind them came an old man. His clothes may have been well-made once, but they had long since been worn ragged by hard use. Despite his stooped posture and the soiled bandages covering most of the exposed flesh on his left side, he moved through the snow with a sureness that could only be that of a Northerner.

"Jon!" the large man exclaimed upon seeing them.

"Sam!" To her surprise, the King replied with almost as much cheer and the first true smile Brienne could remember seeing from him shaved years off his face, "What are you doing here? Surely you can't have read all the books in the Citadel already?" The two men embraced each other firmly. "And, Gods, is that little Sam? He's beautiful, Gilly."

The woman, Gilly, gave him a shy smile as the child squirmed in her arms and leaned in close to whisper something in her ear. His mother nodded in confirmation and set the boy down with an encouraging pat on the back.

" 'Ello Unc'a Jon!" little Sam waved up at the King with a blinding smile.

His Grace actually laughed. Sinking to one knee in front of the child, he ruffled the boy's hair. "Hello Sam," he replied kindly, "Look how big you've gotten! When I last saw you, you were still but a babe."

"He is quite a lovely boy," Lady Sansa spoke up, her expression fond as she watched her brother interact with the child.

"He didn't talk for the longest time," Gilly moved forward to collect her son once more, "But, Sam's been readin' to 'im since Castle Black and one day he started like he'd always been doin' it."

"He seems quite taken with stories," the elder Sam informed them, a father's pride evident in his voice, "He's even starting to recognize a few words himself! And you should see how well Gilly reads now!"

King Jon shook his head fondly. "Mayhap you did read every book in the Citadel after all."

Here, the large man frowned. "They don't care, Jon. Archmaester Ebrose even said he believed the tales had once been true, but that it was not a maester's place to spread undue panic. He wouldn't permit me to research the White Walkers at all. They have all this amazing, incredible knowledge, all the writings of every maester and wise man who ever put his thoughts on paper, and yet they do nothing with it!" Sam paced restlessly, his frustration palpable. "Take Ser Jorah," he gestured to the old man who had been standing silently to one side throughout the reunions, "The maesters were content to let his greyscale consume him, yet they had the instructions to treat it at their fingertips. They wouldn't even try."

"But you did?" the King guessed without so much as a hint of surprise.

"Someone had to."

"Ser Jorah…" King Jon considered the man, "Not Ser Jorah Mormont? Of Bear Island?"

"Aye," Ser Jorah replied, bowing stiffly where he stood, "The same. But no longer of Bear Island, I'm afraid."

"That's right, you were exiled, were you not?"

"I was, Your Grace, by your Lord Father."

The King frowned. "And yet you've returned to Westeros? Why?"

"My Queen commanded that I heal myself and return to her service. Tales of Lady Shireen's survival are well known, and I had hoped the Citadel would have knowledge of the procedures used."

"Your Queen?" Brienne cut in sharply, her hand already drifting to Oathkeeper's hilt as suspicion flared within her.

"It's alright, Lady Brienne," Lady Sansa defused the situation calmly, "I am fully aware of Ser Jorah's loyalties, he has served the Targaryen Queen for some time."

"And yet, he's here?" the King questioned.

"I am," Ser Jorah sighed, "I owe young Samwell my life, so when he mentioned that he and his family were heading north I offered to see them safely to Winterfell. I understand that I am not welcome in the North, but I owed him at least that much."

"And now you intend to return to Queen Daenerys' service?"

"I do."

Brienne caught the look that passed between brother and sister and frowned curiously. Lady Sansa was a clever woman, and King Jon seemed competent enough…

"I'm afraid you will be remaining in our custody for some time yet, Ser," Lady Sansa told him, her voice deceptively light.

"You will be clothed and fed and will have your wounds seen to by our maester," the King continued, picking up from his sister with an ease which hadn't always existed between them, "And you will tell me all that you know of the Dragon Queen and her armies. In return, when the time comes, I will see you returned to her service."

Ser Jorah held the young King's gaze for a long moment before lowering his eyes and nodding sharply. "If I might ask one imposition?" he asked, "It's been more than a decade since I've last seen a Weirwood tree and longer still since last I communed with our Gods…"

"I'll afford you a quarter-hour," His Grace acquiesced, "Lady Brienne, if you could stand guard and return Ser Jorah to the castle upon completion."

"Your Grace," Brienne acknowledged the order with a quick bow before moving to shadow the aging knight as he approached the thick, white trunk of the holy tree.

Behind them, the rest of the group began filling back the way they had come, with Podrick and the King among them. The last thing she heard, as the snows swallowed their retreating backs, was Samwell chatting away about the books he had 'liberated' from the Citadel's library.

Ser Jorah prayed in silence, knelt in the snow with his forehead resting on the Weirwood's bark and his hands on his knees. Brienne watched him from a distance, keeping her face impassive even as distaste flowed through her. This man, this knight, had betrayed his Kingdom and the Realm as a whole to support a girl on the other side of the world whose family dynasty had been justly ended in the face of madness. Brienne was fiercely loyal, unnaturally or foolishly so she'd heard said on more than one occasion, and that was likely the reason she had long struggled to understand how a person could commit the betrayals on which the world was built. She remembered her interactions with Roose Bolton at Harrenhal, remembered the calmness and ease she'd observed in the man about to commit the worst betrayal of them all… She couldn't help but wonder how much of Ser Jorah's apparent ease originated from that same place of dishonesty.

When the quarter-hour had run its course, Brienne stepped forward. "Ser Jorah," she addressed the traitor stiffly, "It is time to return to the castle."

"Of course." The old man hauled himself ungracefully to his feet and made his way over to her with the obvious intention to follow her.

Brienne took a step back and lifted Oathkeeper out of its sheath marginally. "Walk ahead of me."

Ser Jorah paused just long enough to give her a curious look before obeying and leading the way down the snowy path. For several minutes they walked in silence until at last he spoke over his shoulder. "Do you distrust me that much?"

"You've already proven yourself capable of disloyalty and dishonour, Ser."

His short, self-loathing laugh was unexpected, as was the bobbing of his head as he nodded in agreement. "You're right. My honour is well beyond repair."

Brienne frowned as she studied the knight from behind. "Why?"

Ser Jorah came to a halt and turned slowly to face her, his eyes searching her face… for what, she didn't know. "Loyalty."

"I don't understand…"

"Loyalty to a wife who demanded that which we could not afford. Loyalty to the realm that saw me banished for my crimes. Loyalty to the beautiful, kind-hearted sister of the man I was charged with reporting on…" the old knight's smile was grim, "The wife betrayed me. The realm used me. The man abused all those around him. Only the sister stayed true. Only my Queen."

Something in his voice spoke of sincerity the likes of which Brienne had not expected. She stared at him for a moment, weighing several possible responses in her mind, when he spoke again.

"And what about you, My Lady? You strike me as the loyal type, which lucky Lord has the honour of your loyalty?"

"Not a Lord, Ser, but a Lady. The Lady Sansa Stark."

The old knight's smile loosened into something more genuine. "And may I ask why?"

Brienne frowned. "I swore an oath." But it hadn't been that simple, had it? First there had been King Renly, then Lady Catelyn, then Ser Jaime and Podrick and Lady Sansa…

It had started as an oath, one sworn out of thanks to the woman who had defended her even after she had failed her King.

_I don't serve the Starks. I serve Lady Catelyn._

An oath she could never keep as she left Lady Catelyn to the whims of treacherous Lords.

An oath sworn to Ser Jaime over a new sword.

_It was reforged from Ned Stark's sword. You'll use it to defend Ned Stark's daughter._

An oath offered to, and refused by, the last known Stark as Littlefinger looked on.

An oath sworn to that same girl, now frozen and traumatized in a hostile North…

"I swore an oath to the woman I believe in," she replied at last, "And she will have my loyalty, now and always."

"Then we're not so different, you and I."


	16. THE FIELDS OF FIRE

**THE FIELDS OF FIRE**

Jaime III

Despite travelling further and further south, the weather somehow grew colder day by day. After consulting with those Lords of the Reach who had remained loyal to the Crown, Jaime had led the army off the Rose Road at the Kingswood and kept to the Marches and, later, the Red Mountains until they reached Horn Hill. Lord Tarly's pride had been utterly sickening, and Jaime resigned himself to the fact that Bronn had been more right about the man than he had given him credit for. Despite the promise of a castle left mostly unguarded, Jaime allowed the men to rest and regroup at the Marcher Lord's castle. There was little sense moving on the castle before their forces had the chance to form up properly, nor any reason to bring with them any unnecessary supplies which could just as easily be kept safe at Horn Hill. He knew that he could have pushed on forward and set the men at the front of the line to digging trenches, but frankly Jaime had no interest in a siege. With only reserve forces guarding the castle, he had little chance of starving them out and ample chance that Daenerys Targaryen's forces would return to reinforce them. No, better to storm the castle as quickly as possible.

Mounted on his destrier and adorned in Lannister crimson, Jaime had led the final march on Highgarden out past the safety of Horn Hill's walls that morning, just as the first gentle snowflakes began to fall. Now, some hours later, it was snowing in earnest and a thin layer of white had begun decorating the world around them.

"I commend Her Grace on the difficult decision," Randyll Tarly, who rode at his side mounted on a particularly unattractive yet powerfully built courser, spoke for the first time since they rode out.

Jaime fought the urge to sigh or to kick Glory into a quicker pace, or both, preferably. He didn't have the energy for ambitious Lords or social climbers. He hadn't for a long while. "I beg your pardon?"

"You, Ser Jaime," Lord Tarly, at least, lacked the pretty words and double meanings of King's Landing, "You are the greatest warrior of your generation and yet our Queen had the good sense to allow your dismissal from the Kingsguard to stand."

A prickle of _something_ worked its way up his spine… Was it shame, perhaps? Or resentment? It made no difference, he allowed anger to surge into its place either way. "If you have a problem with serving under my command…"

Tarly flushed, visibly thrown off by the intentional misunderstanding. Good.

"Not at all, Ser Jaime," the older man backtracked hurriedly, "That could not be further from the truth. I only meant that, as she is a woman, her Grace cannot carry on your father's great legacy."

"Are you propositioning me, Lord Tarly?" A joke to remind the old man that Cersei would never…

"Not I, Ser, but my daughter, Talla. A fine woman of good breeding whom any man should be fortunate to take as his own. My Lady wife boasts excellent fertility and House Tarly has bred soldiers for thousands of years. I saw to it that my daughter was evaluated when she first bled and the maesters report that she is physically well suited to rear children."

The desire to quicken pace and escape this Godsforsaken conversation was growing stronger by the word. "I'm certain your daughter is a lovely woman, Lord Tarly…" Jaime didn't quite succeed in keeping the exhaustion out of his tone.

"She is. I have taken the liberty of writing to Her Grace to suggest the match, however I imagine she is inundated by similar requests and thought it best to bring the best option to you directly."

_Fuck me._ There was something he hadn't even considered in the shame of his dismissal from the Kingsguard. At the very least, he could be sure Cersei would rebuff the offers with her usual efficiency. "What of your son?" he asked, aiming to drag the conversation away from his possible nuptials, "Dickon, was it? He seemed a capable young man…"

"My younger son and heir," Tarly puffed with pride, "A proper man. More than ready for this, his first command of Horn Hill, in our absence."

Jaime could have left it there — meant to, in fact — but he'd never quite managed to tame his runaway tongue. "And your eldest son? Is he not a proper man?"

A muscle in Randyll's jaw jumped in a telling dance. "A member of the Night's Watch, thank the Seven. My wife would have fallen into hysterics had I been forced to disown him properly. She was always too soft with him. But I assure you that my daughter has been well instructed on the necessity of a firm hand when raising boys. I saw to it personally that Dickon had his interactions with his mother monitored and was spared the mollycoddling that ruined his brother."

_Pleasant,_ Jaime thought sourly, the boy had likely committed no worse crime than his own brother to earn his father's hatred. He'd never been a father, not in any real sense of the term (save for those brief moments of acceptance and hope and _possibility_ in Myrcella's arms) but even Joffrey at his worst had never brought about the hatred he had seen in his own father and now Randyll Tarly. It was a curious enough thing, a father's hate, that seemed found in even the most prominent of families. He'd been too young to see it at the time, but with hindsight he realized even the crown prince had lived with the hatred of his father. Of course, the Mad King had hated everyone by then.

Dragging his thoughts away from the long dead Targaryens, Jaime considered the girl who carried the last of their blood. A girl born of rape he could very well have listened to from the other side of the royal chamber door while he protected her parents from anything except each other. A girl born while a storm raged who had never known the touch of a mother, nor the safety of a father, nor the land her family had ruled…

A girl who's war with his sister could burn everything down.

The rolling hills which had made up the day's march so far gave way at last to the fields of golden roses for which Highgarden was famous. They filled the final valley surrounding the hilltop on which the castle stood and were said to bathe the outer walls in the reflection of their pigment, giving rise to Highgarden's golden walls. Now, however, the gold was tainted and muddied. Petals that had once stood proud were trampled beneath the horses' hooves where they had fallen — wilted and brown — the first victims of the winter chill. The falling snow stuck to sickly stems, slowly burying them alive.

It wasn't only plant-life lost to the chill. Everywhere Jaime looked was silent and still. No smallfolk toiled in the fields, every home they passed appeared deserted, and even the wildlife seemed to have forsaken the area. For a castle known for its music and beauty, the utter silence soon became eerie.

"They must have allowed the townsfolk refuge within the castle walls," Lord Tarly observed, studying the terrain, "A foolish act of sentimentality. Subpar soldiers prevent sound tactics and pose a liability to their own side."

Jaime frowned but did not disagree as he brought the stallion beneath him to a halt. "Prepare the front lines. Calvary and ladders. We charge from here."

"At once, Ser Jaime." Lord Tarly pulled his own mount around and rode off, barking orders as he went.

The formation took shape behind him with the precision and efficiency which had earned the Lannister army their fame until the snorting and shifting of restless warhorses filled their commander's ears. Ahead of them, Highgarden was as motionless as its surrounding lands.

A fallen fruit, ripe for the taking.

Glory surged beneath him, a controlled mass of muscle and thundering hooves responsive to even the slightest touch. Blonde hair, grown out somewhat since his dismissal from the Kingsguard, was swept back by the passing wind. Reins were coiled around his golden hand and his sword was held at the ready in the other… Jaime was _home_. The charge washed everything away. Energy coursed through him, his mind sharpened and the scenery flying past him exploded with colour he hadn't known he was missing.

The reserve guard finally came into view as they stormed ever closer. They seemed to have fled the safety of the castle walls to meet them in the field.

An honourable choice.

His forces surged around him, renewed by the promise of impending slaughter.

A stupid choice.

The sound of thousands of mounts and men in full charge rose to a deafening, pulsing roar and in that roar, Jaime knew.

A trap.

Glory's stride stumbled.

The castle _moved._

"Call it off!" Jaime screamed, spinning around in his saddle and searching for Lord Tarly or another commander or _anyone _who could see the order carried out, "Fall back!"

The dragons were upon them before the words fully left his mouth.

There were two of them, enormous, winged monsters who leaped from the shadows of Highgarden's wall with cries that set Jaime's teeth on edge. He'd never seen creatures that large. It shouldn't have been possible, _they_ shouldn't have been possible, and yet… Were they as large as the skulls the Mad King had treasured so dearly? They couldn't be. But, it seemed, they were.

When they let fly their first towers of flames all other thoughts vanished. Screams of bloodlust turned to wails of pain as death rained down upon them from above and the smell… Sulphur and smoke and burning meat… Jaime threw off his helmet as he dragged Glory away from the carnage for fear of choking on the vomit he felt rising in his throat.

"Fall back! Fall back! Archer, form up! Everyone else, protect them!" Jaime wheeled his mount further around. It was a coward who fled. It was a fool who stayed and fought.

_My bloody honour is beyond repair._

He dug his heels into Glory's flanks and the destrier charged back the way they had come.

All around him, men scrambled to retreat with him. Horses bucked and panicked and soldiers were thrown or trampled or dragged, tangled in stirrups or tack, behind creatures mad with fear. All around them, fire carved great swaths out of the fleeing men with as much ease as a cloth would wipe mud from a breastplate. Or scorch marks.

"Archers!" Jaime shouted over the chaos, "Aim for the eyes! Loose! Loose! Loose!"

Volleys of arrows joined the madness in clusters from where the archers had scattered, more than a few of them striking their targets but bouncing, useless, off their scales. Still, the monsters took offence to the assault and made their displeasure clear by taking aim at the pockets of bowmen with additional ferocity, their cries still echoing across the fields.

"Spread out!" Jaime ordered, changing tactics out of necessity as his archers roasted alive, reduced in moments to scorched metal and ash, "Get them covering distance and for fuck' sake get to cover!"

His voice was lost to the wind and snow and ash kicked up by the dragons' massive wings, and the roar of creatures and flames alike. And the screams. Death throes of men and horses both rang in his ears in a way that the monsters' calls could not. His eyes burned as he rode, headless of the rumours of cowardice that would surely follow should any of them survive, at full stride out of the valley and up the hill from which they had started their charge what seemed like a lifetime ago. If he could get the remaining men back to Horn Hill, the supplemental forces and the castle itself may offer them some kind of chance. The dragons would pick them off for sport along the way, but they were just creatures set loose upon them, with neither tactics nor a commander to keep them from making mistakes, and if they could survive long enough to regroup…

Another monstrous roar pierced any scattered thoughts the commander had managed to pull together as the crest of the hill fell into shadow. A third dragon. It dwarfed the first two easily, a massive black thing that Aerys Targaryen would have spilled his seed to look upon, which appeared all that much larger as it soared towards them low enough that its great scaled belly clipped the treetops and set them aflame with body heat alone. Jaime had scarcely enough time to notice a harness encircling the beast's chest when it let loose a pillar of flames of its own.

Glory reared in fright, and Jaime clung to his mane with his good hand as he struggled to control his mount. Somehow, unbelievably, he not only stayed on but also steered the stallion clear of the fire that engulfed his fellow soldiers. Trapped between monsters on either side, pandemonium overtook any remaining structure among the ranks as men and beasts fled for their lives. The two smaller dragons flanked them, keeping the army from scattering completely while the newcomer pushed them back upon themselves.

Thanks in no small part to Glory's size, his rider was able to keep eyes on the black dragon even in the stampede of men and horses which raged on all sides of him. He should lead his men, he knew. Fuck that, he should _run_, but he couldn't tear his attention away from the figure perched atop the massive beast as though it were a common horse.

She was wet and windswept, damp clothing stuck to a woman's body with the face of a girl. And, Gods, was she _Targaryen_. A traditional, if delicate, beauty made unworldly by the ethereal prettiness of Old Valyria and wrapped in snow soaked tangles of white as wild as her father's had been. Her eyes flashed from violet to red in the glow of the flames as she surveyed the carnage impassively, just as Aerys' had reflected the green of his fiery madness.

_Burn them all._

Fire erupted beside him and heat so extreme it felt solid sliced through him. Glory screeched in agony, panic taking him at last as he threw himself about wildly in a frantic attempt to escape the prison of his scorched skin. Jaime was thrown before he truly processed what happened, instincts driving him to roll away, away, _away_ from his dying mount and the all-consuming flames and the corpses strewn about with their juices bubbling past their armour as they boiled from the inside out and the suffocating ash that had once been men unfortunate enough to be in the dragon's direct line of fire and the screams and the heat, heat, _heat_.

He couldn't see.

He couldn't breathe.

He was burning and boiling and burning and burning and _burning_. He crawled desperately at his armour as he rolled, tore at it, screaming, as it refused to give way. And still he was burning, burning, _burning_.

_Burn them all! Burn them all! Burn them all!_

Aerys' manic laughter echoed through his head until the heat won out and darkness took hold.


	17. THE FAMILY WE MAKE

**THE FAMILY WE MAKE**

Gendry III

A lifetime ago, in the damp caverns the Brotherhood had called home, he'd spoken the truth as he had believed it to be.

_You wouldn't be my family, you'd be m'Lady._

Looking at her now, clad in leather and coated in filth, Gendry knew he had never been more wrong.

Winterfell's forge was much the same as every other forge in every other castle or cave or Flea Bottom alleyway that he'd ever worked in. It was kept dark enough that the temperature of metal could be judged by its colour and hot enough to tan exposed flesh in a way the sun could never hope to match, the only difference here was the presence of walls separating the various workstations from each other. To preserve heat, Arya had told him. Truthfully, Gendry was grateful for any extra warmth and would be forever amazed that a tiny thing like Arry didn't freeze to death the moment she stepped out of the forge.

She was at the anvil now, hammer in one hand and tongs in the other, as she shaped the rough form of a dagger out of heated steel. What she lacked in physical power compared to the other smiths, she made up for with precision and control. With training, Gendry had no doubt she could become quite a competent bladesmith. As it was, she seemed to enjoy his teachings, and the physicality of it had helped calm some of the restless energy that forever radiated from her.

"Remember, you're moving the metal," Gendry reminded her with a smirk as she whacked the same portion of metal back and forth a few times, "Not removing it."

Arya shot him a dirty look but took the advice all the same as she returned the piece to the flames and moved to work the bellows. Aside from the physical enjoyment she seemed to get from working with him, she also appeared to relish the opportunity to be Arry again, as she had been when he first met her all those years ago. She hid in plain sight among the other smiths, dressed as they were in worn, sleeveless tunics and britches protected by a leather apron and the leather cap under which she had tucked away her hair. Apparently, Lady Sansa had balked at the idea of her cutting it off again.

She suited the look, Gendry decided, with her lithe, muscular frame and…

And that was enough of that. He'd say she'd grown into a woman while they'd been apart, but she hadn't, really. She was still just as tiny and boyish and rough as he remembered… Perhaps it was him who had changed? Or perhaps nothing had changed at all.

_You know you shouldn't insult people that are bigger than you are._

_Then I wouldn't get to insult anyone._

"What are you smiling at?" Arya asked, returning her project to the anvil and grabbing the hammer once more.

Gendry shook his head, aware that he was still smiling. "Nothing. You should let that rest for a moment after this round."

Arya nodded absentmindedly and gave the piece a few more strikes before setting it aside. "Sansa's plotting."

"Is that unusual?"

"Doesn't appear to be."

"She's not," Gendry began, then stopped, considering his words. Arry wouldn't care, but he was learning quickly that castle walls have ears and many of those ears belonged to her sister, "Only, when you used to mention her… She's not what I expected, I suppose."

"Nor I," Arya swung herself up to perch on a nearby workbench and wiped her soot-stained hands on her pants, "She's less stupid than I remember."

The smith snorted. "I should aspire to one day receive such a compliment," he teased.

"Fuck off."

Gendry grinned at her as he selected one of his ongoing projects to put into the forge. Silence lapsed over them, as much as silence could with the roaring of flames and endless pounding of hammers on metal around them, as he waited for the metal to take the heat.

Arya sighed behind him, grabbing a whetstone from the bench next to her and setting to work putting the final edge on the blades they'd finished already. "I only wish I'd been able to work out how he found out about the Targaryen girl…"

'He' could only be the man Arry called Littlefinger, the one her sister had tasked her with watching. Gendry had seen him once or twice now, first by chance in the courtyard while gathering supplies for the forge — he'd been at Lady Sansa's side as she conversed with highborn Lords he didn't recognize — and later in the forge itself, but fortunately never when Arry was there. It was the rest of the statement that was the question, "What about the Targaryen girl?"

"She's gone. Took off on her dragons after they landed at White Harbour. Sansa and Baelish think she means to intercept the Lannister army at Highgarden."

"Oh," Gendry blinked, "Well, that's alright, isn't it? Less folks for the North to fight?"

The look Arya gave him would have cowed better men. "I don't care about the Dragon Queen, balls-for-brains, I care about how Littlefinger knew. Messages go two ways and if he's got someone in her camp… Of all the days to be stuck up a fucking tree…"

Gendry didn't ask. Some things he was perfectly happy not knowing. Instead, he pulled the metal from the forge and set to work forming it into a serviceable sword. King Jon had ordered the creation of weapons intended to be used to wield fire, and Gendry had taken it upon himself to experiment with a few different designs.

Master Mott had complained often and loudly any time the drunk priest, Thoros, had come in search of a new blade. What he did to his work wasn't worth the money, he used to say. The drunk may as well use a broom-handle, for all quality mattered to him. For that reason, and despite his status and proximity to those who might seek to commission their own blade from the craftsman responsible for his famed burning blade, Gendry and the other apprentices had been given dominion over the priest's swords. Of course, Thoros had also been known to haggle relentlessly (and drunkenly) and bemoan the set price each time he visited, which had likely played a part as well. What the young smith remembered most, however, was the unusually deep fuller the priest had favoured. They had never spoken about it, specifically, but Gendry had always believed that the fuller must have played a part in keeping his blade aflame.

So far, his experiments with varying the depth and width of the fuller had yielded limited results, including one particular failure which had nearly set his hand alight when the oil funnelled past the crossguard. Arya had found it hilarious. Gendry, less so. Still, he carried on, changing his design each time. This latest version included a fuller with indents down its length and the edges of each divot pinched up and over to create a lip around its circumference. He hoped the smaller opening versus the larger interior would help hold the oil in place even as the sword moved. He also hoped to test it when Arry _wasn't_ here. For now, though, the blade needed roughing out into something workable.

They worked in companionable silence for a while until the metal under Gendry's hammer needed the chance to rest. Only then did Arya speak.

"So," the smirk on her face was not reassuring in the slightest, "I thought we might start with something simple…"

Gendry groaned, even as he set his work down and moved to lean against the workbench next to her. "Arry…" he sighed, "I'm a smith, nothing more. I'm alright with that."

Meeting with the King and Lady Sansa as the son of Robert Baratheon had been the single most nerve-racking experience of his life. Sure, he'd felt terror far greater than what he'd felt walking into the room, but he would gladly face that fear a thousand times over before experiencing the feeling of inadequacy that being alone with his best friend's family had brought him again. Even when Arya had appeared from Gods only knew where to fill in the story of their meeting and travels together, all he could see was the same thing that had led him to that moment in the cave…

_You wouldn't be my family, you'd be m'Lady._

He'd panicked, later, when there was no one but Arry to witness it. He wasn't a Lord. He wasn't a Prince. He wasn't highborn, nor important, nor worth anything more than the trade he could provide.

"I haven't the mind to be a Lord!" he'd told her, fully aware that he was well past desperate by that point.

"I'll say," she'd agreed sarcastically, "You can think."

"It's not funny, Arry. I can't be a Lord. I can't be anything."

Arya had sighed then, and turned serious. "Why not?"

"Why?" He'd been panicking and frustrated and trying to explain something that his best friend, highborn little Lady that she was beneath the sharp edges and sharper words, just couldn't understand. And he'd broken. "I… Fuck it. I can't sit a horse, Arya. I can't wield a sword. I can't do sums. My mother was a whore. I've got no learning 'sides smithin'. I can't even read, nor write… I _can't_ be what you are."

She'd left it, then, without expression or response, and hadn't mentioned it again. But she hadn't forgotten, and nor had he.

Now, in the heat of the forge, she wiggled a piece of paper over his shoulder. "C'mon, Gendry. I've been reliably informed that my penmanship is atrocious, you'll hardly be learning proper reading off it."

It was the tiny, and quickly extinguished, trace of hopeful excitement in her voice that swayed him. He rolled his eyes with a long-suffering sigh. "Fine," he grumbled, even as he took the paper from her and peered at it warily, "What do I do?"

Arya leaned forward, resting one forearm on his shoulder while she pointed out the appropriate scribbles with her other hand. "Each of these marks is a letter — "

"I know what a letter is — "

She cuffed his ear at the interruption. "Shut up. Each letter makes a sound. Put them together and groups of letters make even more sounds. Put those together and you get words."

"Seven Hells, Arry…"

"It's easy enough once you get the hang of it."

Somehow, Gendry very much doubted that but a glance up at Arya's face revealed that genuine quirk of her lips that he was forever trying to bring out, so he kept his doubts to himself and tried to focus.

"See, this is a G," she indicated a scribble, "It mostly makes a _gee_ or _gh_ sort of sound."

"That's two sounds, Arry," Gendry pointed out, "And what do you mean, mostly?"

His teacher waved her hand dismissively. "It's fine — "

"It's really not — "

"This one is an E. It makes an _eee_ or an _eh_."

"Fuck me…"

"And this is an N," Arya carried on, ignoring his commentary despite the smirk which betrayed her amusement, "It makes a _nhu_ sound — "

"Mostly?" Gendry guessed dully.

"Mostly," Arya agreed, "See, together _gu, eh, nhu_. It makes the sound _gen_."

He felt a fond smile wiggling its way onto his face. "You're teaching me my name."

"I told you, we'll start with something easy," she gestured further down the paper where Gendry could now recognize that all the words started with the same three letters. The _gen_ sound. "Names are odd," she continued, "Folks spell them in ways that don't always follow the normal rules. But, I figured the first thing you should learn would be your own name, so I wrote out a few different spellings for it, and we can pick the one you — "

"It's this one."

"Come again?"

Gendry was staring at the page, an odd feeling of not-quite-remembering swirling in his gut as he stared at one particular scribble. He _knew_ that word. "It's this one," he pointed.

"G, E, N, D, R, Y," Arya read out, frowning, "Gendry. How do you know that?"

"I…" Gendry shook his head, racking his memory as far back as possible, "I've seen it before, I think. My mum showed it to me."

"Your mother could read?"

Gendry looked up to see a thoughtful expression on his friend's face. "I don't know. I suppose so. I was only little when she died, but I remember there was a paper I was to give to Master Mott after she was gone…"

Arya considered him for a long moment before clearing the expression away. "I'm sorry you lost her."

"It's common enough," the young smith shrugged, "The older I get, the less I remember of her. Gods, I've known you longer now than I ever did her."

"A poor replacement, I'm sure."

Gendry smiled fondly. "You'll do."

Arya kicked him none too gently in the side. "Jon used to say something similar about his mother. That it was common not to know her, that lots of lads don't, and all that. Even when I was furious at mine, or thought she couldn't love me for what I was, he was always the one making sure I never took her for granted…"

"Then I'm grateful to him," Gendry smiled, running a callused finger over the scribble that was his name absentminded, "Your brother — that is, His Grace, seems like a — What?"

Arya was laughing, properly laughing in a way that shook her entire body. "Don't do that. His name's Jon, and he's my brother. That's all."

The young smith frowned. "He's the King, Arry. It's only proper to address him as such…"

"I know, I know," her laughter died down, but the smile remained, "But it's just us, and he's _Jon_. I've seen him clad in a woman's nightdress tucked up in my bed so that I could sneak to the kitchen without Mother knowing…"

It was Gendry's turn to laugh at the mental image that sentence conjured up. "How did that work?"

"He was the only one of my siblings with hair like mine, we just made certain the rest of him was under furs. Mother never did find out."

"Why the nightdress, then?"

Arya's smile turned positively wolflike. "Couldn't be too careful."

_Gods, her poor brother. _"Of course."


	18. THE DEAD,THE DRUNK,THE DAYNE & THE DOG

**THE DEAD, THE DRUNK, THE DAYNE AND THE DOG**

Brienne III

Brienne of Tarth was neither a knight nor a Lady. She was neither soldier nor commander, nor (according to the whispers which had followed her all her life) was she daughter or son. Suffice to say, then, that a day spent in her great, lumbering body was not what most would consider normal. Still, the events of the day so far were further removed from typical than even she was accustomed to, and she had the sense that it could get stranger still.

The day had begun even before the sun had fought its way through the perpetual winter clouds, signalled by a knock at the door of the chamber she and Podrick shared. Her squire, still half asleep and stumbling, had snapped into wakefulness the moment he opened the door and came face to face with none other than the King in the North. Brienne, though still mussed with sleep herself, had dressed hurriedly at His Grace's insistence and followed him past an obviously confused Podrick and into the hall. The King was already fully dressed, with the cloak she'd watched Sansa make for him back at Castle Black draped around his shoulders and his Valyrian steel sword at his hip, and he had seemed more energized than she could recall seeing him despite the early hour. He had given no indication of where they were going, but as he led her out into the courtyard and then past the gates into the snows beyond, Brienne had found herself gladdened that she'd thought to grab her own cloak and blade on the way out.

Now that cloak was soaked through with snow and ice and hung heavy on her shoulders as she trudged back through the courtyard on frozen feet under the last rays of evening sun. Her muscles ached where they still had warmth and tingled painfully everywhere else in response to the cold, and her sweat-soaked hair had long since frozen to her scalp. All in all, she was very much looking forward to the warmth of the castle, a dry set of clothes and the opportunity to look back over the events of her day with the King.

Her Grace had led them through the collection of snowhomes, nodding to the various residents just beginning to rise for the day as they went, until the settlement petered out and they had found themselves amongst the giant trees that made up the Wolfswood. It was only then, as the trees had closed in behind her and the sound of human life faded away, that Brienne had brought herself to question her King.

"Your Grace," she had addressed him and she hastened to keep pace, "Might I ask where we're going? Surely, a larger guard would have been wise if you planned to venture this far from the castle?"

The King had chuckled uncharacteristically at that. "This is what I know, Brienne," he'd told her, "Believe me, I'm safer here than in the clutches of politics. I've been thinking about your question back in the Godswood, about snow, and what I saw in your practice with Podrick, and it has occurred to me that you are perfectly suited to help me."

"Help you, Your Grace?"

"Aye. Winter is here. The snows fall heavier each day, and soon we will be at war in it. The men, and frankly the women, need training if we hope to survive. If I teach you what I know of winter warfare, I had hoped you might accept the task of training our fighters."

Brienne remembered the feeling of pride that had rushed through her before being drowned by the wave of shame that inevitably followed. "You honour me, Your Grace, but I'm afraid I'm no knight nor qualified in the slightest — "

"You're an exceptional fighter," His Grace had interrupted easily, as though he had expected her rebuttal, "And from all accounts a quick study and dutiful teacher. I can think of no one better. And, in truth, knighthood means very little in the North. It is a custom of the South and the Seven."

With no further argument to offer, and frankly flushed by the compliment, Brienne had left her remaining insecurities unvoiced and continued to follow her King until they had reached a large clearing. To her surprise, the clearing had been home to several tents and outdoor fire pits with a few free folk milling about them.

"Cá magnar Zr'kk?" _**[1]**_ the King had asked the group at large.

The men had gestured toward a tent nestled a ways behind the others where an old man had been emerging to investigate their arrival. While he and His Grace had greeted each other and spoke briefly, Brienne had taken the opportunity to study the wildling.

Life had not been kind to him, that much had been obvious. From the scars lining his face (some intentionally linier and painted a sickly blue, while others were jagged chunks gouged from his cheek and forehead) to the still bandaged stump where his left forearm should have been, he wore the tale of his life on his skin for all to see. Age had stooped him, yet he remained light on his feet, with a patchy grey beard grown between the scars and equally thin white hair draped lifelessly over his shoulders. He had been dressed in weather-worn furs from creatures Brienne had not been able to identify and had seemed to be missing at least part of most of the fingers on his remaining hand.

"Brienne, may I introduce Zr'kk, an elder of the cave dwellers," His Grace had interrupted her observations to introduce them, "Zr'kk, seo magni Brienne." _**[2]**_

The old man had leered at her, the expression revealing stained teeth filed to sharp points, as he had given her with a little wave with his mangled hand. Brienne, who had been entirely unsure about the situation, had returned the gesture stiffly. Unless she had been very much mistaken, the King had stifled a chuckle at her expense.

The wildling hadn't shown the same courtesy and had wheezed a chuffing sort of laugh. "Tar liom ansin." _**[3]**_

"Follow him," His Grace had translated, as the old man had stumped off into the trees, "He, and the remaining free folk who weren't fit to march when the others headed out, will leave with the soldiers marching north tomorrow to supplement the forces at the Wall, but Zr'kk has agreed to share his knowledge of snow reading with us both beforehand."

"Does he understand the Common Tongue?"

"A few words, perhaps," the King had shrugged, "I would never claim fluency in Old Tongue, least of all in the dialect of cave dwellers, but we manage."

And that was how Brienne of Tarth, the woman who wouldn't be, had found herself sparing with a King while a vicious looking old man shouted enthusiastic instructions she couldn't understand at them both. She had learned much fighting in the freshly piled snow. She learned about the many unique ways snow could form, from the snowflakes everyone recognized to to hoarfrost and graupel. She learned how it piled, how it melted and froze, how it could be formed by the wind and, most importantly, which of those formations were safe for bearing weight. She learned to read the surface, to predict when a seemingly flat patch of snow was hiding drastically uneven terrain underneath. And, more than that, she learned to fight through the inevitable slips that came with life on ice. When she'd left His Grace in the company of Zr'kk and the other free folk to finish preparations for their march the following day, she'd been more sore than she had been in a long while.

Thinking back on it now reignited the surge of adrenaline only a good fight could offer, even through the cold and fatigue.

King Jon was a formidable opponent. He was quick, deceptively powerful, and fought with a control that spoke of a technique tempered in the heat of battle. He showed no hesitation in staying tight to her, negating her superior reach by invading her space and pushing to the pace of their strikes. It was exhilarating. The armoury talk of his skills were not exaggerated in the slightest, and she carried the bumps and bruises to prove it. Of course, she smiled slightly to herself as she allowed herself a rare moment of pride, so did he. Were it not wholly inappropriate, she would ask him to be a regular sparring partner. As it was, she now understood the energy and eagerness he had displayed back before the sun rose.

There were more people about now, even into the evening hour, than there had been when they had headed out this morning. They crowded under sheltered overhangs around the edges of the courtyard to avoid the night snows which were beginning to fall. _Good traction in the morning, _Brienne noted, _but likely deep drifts as well, which could be dangerous over unknown terrain. _She imagined that the King's strategy of staying in his opponent's space would be particularly effective in deep snows, as it would push them to move and create a clear path which he could then use to advance without additional effort…

Perhaps it was thoughts of challenging opponents clouding her senses but, as she made her way toward the castle entrance which would lead to her chambers, a figure in her periphery caught her eye. It was a hulking figure — who happened to bear a striking resemblance to someone she knew to be long dead — who was being spoken to by Lord Baelish of all people. Stopping in her tracks and ignoring the way the lack of movement allowed the cold to gnaw into her flesh, Brienne turned.

It couldn't be him.

It shouldn't be him.

But it _was_.

Sandor Clegane looked very much like she remembered him, a massive man with a burned face and perpetual scowl who lived up to his moniker in the snarls he sent passersby who dared step too close or stare too long. He was armed, of course he was, but without the well-worn armour he'd used during their fight. Of more interest was the fact that, as he advanced on the Lord Protector of the Vale menacingly, Brienne noted he seemed to move more carefully than he had before.

She was marching toward them before she realized her feet had moved.

"Go ask your whores or your birds or your nags or whoever it is you pay for that shit. I have nothing to say, you slimy cunt."

Lord Baelish seemed unfazed by the dangerous undertone in Clegane's voice, but he caught sight of Brienne before he could respond and inclined his head respectfully in her direction instead. "My Lady."

"My Lord," Brienne replied automatically, "Is there a problem here?"

"Of _fucking_ course," Clegane snarled as he noticed her, "Go on then, get it over with."

Brienne frowned in confusion. "I'm not sure I understand your meaning, Ser."

"I told you, you dumb bitch, I'm not a knight. Now get your gloating over with and fuck off."

Lord Baelish had stepped a few paces back from the pair, hovering curiously just within earshot, but Brienne ignored him. "I failed in my objective that day," she told Clegane instead, "I've no reason to gloat."

The scarred warrior scoffed, a look of disgust on his face as he stormed off.

Brienne spared Lord Baelish the briefest of glances before hurrying after her former opponent. "Wait!" she called out, ignoring the jolt of surprise as did just that, "I did not mean to imply that my objective was to kill you."

"And what was it then," Clegane challenged as he turned back to face her, both now stood in the falling snow.

Up close, Brienne could now make out the way he favoured his right leg, even while stationary. "I was charged with protecting Lady Arya. I failed."

Clegane snorted and shook his head in a very doglike manner as he turned away once more. "You and me both."

* * *

She'd finally convinced Clegane to meet with Lady Sansa and announce his presence. He, in turn, had dragged a group of rough-looking men along with them while grumbling about not subjecting himself to this horseshit alone. Lady Sansa had taken the unexpected visit in stride and seen to it that the men were fed and warmed by the fire, a gesture that seemed to placate Clegane, while they waited for the King's return. Brienne was then ordered to find some dry clothes while Podrick was tasked with watching over their guests. His Grace had returned not long after and joined them despite still being damp from his travels and a day spent in the snow. Lady Sansa stopped short of ordering her brother to get changed, although her disapproval was clear in the glare she shot him behind their guests' backs.

The group, headed by a man who introduced himself as Lord Beric Dondarrion, called themselves the Brotherhood Without Banners and proclaimed themselves to be a group of outlaws looking to protect the common folks' interests from rulers who would take advantage of them. It was an honourable cause, to be sure, but Brienne remained suspicious of the motley group.

So too, it seemed, did the King. "And you've come to Winterfell for what reason, Lord Beric?" he asked, polite yet with an undercurrent of something more threatening.

"There's not a soul to be found elsewhere in the North, Your Grace," Lord Beric replied, his tone mild and his smile calm as he addressed the King, "We can't very well protect those we aren't with, can we?"

Lord Beric was a curious creature. Brienne wasn't one for disparaging names, but creature did seem a more apt description than man. His voice was that of someone still in the early years of their manhood, and yet he had the body and face of someone twice that. An eyepatch covered the entirety of his right eye, but it did nothing to disguise the vicious scars which extended outwards to wrap both around the side of his forehead and over his nose onto the opposite cheek. There was, likewise, no hiding the thick knot of scarring running clean across his throat or the sickly grey pallor of his skin. It was that pallor which aged him most of all, that and the emptiness in his one remaining eye.

"You are fighting the only war that matters, Your Grace," the man seated next to Lord Beric added. He smelled of a mixture of sweat and alcohol and had appeared to be well in his cups even before Lady Sansa had provided wine with their meal. "The dead. The war between light and dark. The war for dawn."

"What do you know of the dead?" His Grace asked sharply.

"They're coming. Marching on the Wall. They'll cross it too, spreading night all across the world."

"Where did you hear this, My Lord?"

The drunk shook his head. "Not a Lord, Yer Grace, just a priest," he sighed and tapped at his forehead, "An' I saw it. We all did."

"Thoros is a priest of the Red God," Lord Beric cut in, apparently unconcerned that his favoured priest was spouting drunken nonsense, "The Red priests and priestesses of Asshai have seen visions of the Long Night and its heroes for generations now."

"Fucking fire gods," Clegane mocked from where he slouched in his own seat, "They see snow in the North and figure the end is here. Gods don't do shit. They don't tell ya shit, neither."

"You're a miserable cunt, you know that Clegane?" another member of the group quipped from in front of the hearth where he was tending to his bow in the firelight.

"You'd know all about cunts, wouldn't you, Anguy?" Clegane snarled, "You've got your arrows shoved up yours all — "

"That's enough," Lord Beric interrupted as the archer, Anguy, and Clegane eyed each other with murderous intent, Thoros laughed openly and the fourth member of the group, a pale-haired youth who had stayed out of the conversation thus far, stifled a chuckle.

"You claim to serve two masters," Lady Sansa addressed Lord Beric alone, pointedly ignoring all other members of the Brotherhood, "The wellbeing of the common folk and this Red God. Which is it?"

"Why can't it be both, My Lady?" the priest queered, before Lord Beric could answer, "The Lord of Light's purpose is the welfare of his people."

"That hasn't been my experience," the Lady of Winterfell's voice was as cold as the North itself.

"Nor mine," Brienne added, memories of Stannis' Red Woman adding a similar edge to her own voice.

"Tell me about this Red God." Despite his quiet tone, the order immediately put an end to the back and forth. The King had an odd, closed off expression on his face as his eyes tracked the injuries on Lord Beric's face.

This time, the memories invading Brienne's mind took place at Castle Black. The Red Woman serving and advising Lord Snow. The rumours of his death and the magic which had brought him back… She'd assumed it was free folk magic, if there was any truth to the rumours at all, as they seemed the type to meddle in such unnatural things. The Red Woman's magic had never occurred to her. Her's was a force of evil and death, surely such darkness could never bring life…

"The Lord of Light is life and light and warm," Thoros explained, unaware of Brienne's inner musing, "He grants us visions in his flames and guides us in our eternal struggle against the Great Other, a demon of ice and death whose name shall never be spoken. He brought us here, to you, for your fight is his as well. It has always been his."

King Jon stood abruptly and began pacing the length of the table. Brienne noted that he rubbed absentmindedly at his chest as he did so, though she could not recall landing a blow there during their sparring. "The Great Other," he repeated after a moment, "You mean the White Walkers? Or the Night King, perhaps?"

"What else?" Lord Beric shrugged, "R'hllor and the Great Other are said to be locked in eternal conflict and condemned to remain so until Azor Ahai comes again to drive the darkness from the realms."

"In ancient books of Asshai," the drunk priest recited lazily, "It is written that there will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour the warrior Azor Ahai shall be born again amidst smoke and salt to wake dragons out of stone. And draw they shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and the darkness shall flee before him."

Silence followed his words and Brienne wondered if everyone present had felt the strange pull toward contemplation those words had brought about in her. They must have, if their faces were anything to go by. She was raised in the faith of the Seven, as was common on Tarth and most places in the South, but religion had never played a large role in her life. Faith, as she knew it, favoured gentle maidens and gallant men. There was no place for someone like her in their songs and prayers. Still, she remembered the red comet that preceded King Robert's death and the wars that followed… And then there was the Targaryen girl…

"The Dragon Queen, Daenerys Targaryen, she's said to have hatched her dragons from eggs once turned to stone," she said at last.

"Yes," Lord Beric agreed, "And many believe her to be the hero of legend."

"But not you?" Lady Sansa questioned.

"Perhaps, My Lady," Dondarrion sighed, "Perhaps. But prophecy is rarely so simple."

"Many a priest and priestess have been led to ruin interpreting beyond their power and following their own beliefs rather than our lord's commands," Thoros added, "They forget, you see, that we are but men. It is not our place to meddle in the affairs of Gods."

"Tell them about Thoros's kiss, My Lord." It was the youngest member of the Brotherhood who broke the lull in conversation which had followed the priest's words as he stepped forward, face alight with youthful eagerness.

"And you are?" Lady Sansa asked, eyeing the youth.

"Edric, My Lady, Lord Edric Dayne of Starfall. Milkbrother to His Grace."

King Jon stopped pacing abruptly. "Say again?"

Lord Dayne glanced between the King and the Lady of Winterfell as his face reddened and took on the look of a man who realized he may have overstepped his bounds. "Your mother," he clarified cautiously, "Wylla fed me at her breast when my mother could not…"

The young Lord's statement seemed to freeze their King in place as he stared at the pale-haired lad. Brienne would never presume to understand what feelings swirled behind the empty gaze, but she found herself relieved on His Grace's behalf when Lady Sansa took control of the conversation.

"Dorne has sworn allegiance to the Targaryen Queen," she stated coldly, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table, "With that in mind I would be well within my right to have you taken into custody until she could ransom your release. Tell me why I should not, Lord Dayne."

The Dornish Lord looked to his companions helplessly but answered all the same, the cheer with which he had introduced himself long since gone from his voice. "The Sand Snakes have sworn allegiance to Daenerys Targaryen," he corrected haltingly, "But they do not speak for all of Dorne. I have been away from my home for some years now, serving Lord Beric as squire even before the Brotherhood was formed, but my aunt has kept me abreast of happenings in the desert. Prince Doran and his son were loved by their people for many years, but after Prince Oberyn's death that sentiment began to change. Allyria — that is, my aunt — warned me to stay away, for she believed something dangerous was moving in the shadows. Ellaria Sand grew up nearer to the mountains than to Sunspear and was acquainted with my family through her father. I did not know her myself, but she was said to be gentle and kind enough to tame the Red Viper. After she orchestrated the slaughter of our Prince and his son, it became clear that Allyria's fears were true. I cannot say who in Dorne has knelt out of survival rather than loyalty, but I know there is dissent, at least in the hearts of men."

Lady Sansa leaned back with a satisfied smile. "Thank you, My Lord. That was most illuminating."

Lord Edric shuffled uncertainly under her gaze. "You're not going to arrest me, are you?"

"I am not," Lady Sansa assured him, "The Brotherhood Without Banners is welcome in Winterfell under the same conditions imposed on all our residents. Details of the rationing and housing arrangements we have in place will be provided to you — "

"Wait." His Grace had come back to himself, it seemed, but he had eyes only for Lord Beric now, "What is this kiss Lord Edric mentioned?"

The Brotherhood's leader sighed, studying the King as intently as he himself was being studied, and seemed to weigh his responses.

The King, however, was not willing to wait for the correct words. "You've died, haven't you?" It was a statement phrased as a question.

"Yes," Lord Beric accepted the accusation easily, "Many times now. Too many. But, so have you."

His Grace's fingers twitched, but he held Lord Beric's gaze. "And the kiss?"

"Funeral rites performed by followers of the Lord of Light. Fire is breathed down the dead's throat to light their way. It seems my way is yet on this earth."

"Why?"

"I don't know," the undead Lord watched their King with sadness in his visible eye, "And you?"

"A Red Priestess. She didn't kiss me."

Lord Beric hummed thoughtfully. "How did you go?"

His Grace frowned, and Brienne saw his hand move to rub at his chest once more. "A knife to the heart."

"Someone you trusted, then."

"Aye, someone I trusted."

Lord Beric heaved a heavy sigh and exchanged a look with the priest at his side. "I'm truly sorry, lad," he said at last, hauling himself to his feet with all the grace of an old man before lowering himself to one knee in front of the King, "The Brotherhood Without Banners is yours, Your Grace."

"Fucking Hells," Clegane grumbled.

* * *

_**1\. **Where is clan chief Zr'kk?_

_**2\. **Zr'kk, this is clan mother Brienne_

_**3\. **Come with me, then_


	19. THE GHOST OF WINTERFELL

**THE GHOST OF WINTERFELL**

Daenerys IV

Drogon hit the earth with enough force that his mother was nearly thrown from her perch between his shoulders. Fresh snowfall exploded around them under the force of his wings, blinding them both as he skidded to a halt on the frozen ground. Righting herself shakily, Daenerys ran a hand over her child's scales in an attempt to sooth him. On the other side of the clearing, Rhaegal and Viserion slammed into the snowdrifts with just as little grace as their brother and shrieked their distress for all to hear. The Queen herself was faring little better as she slid from her mount and dropped to her hands and knees in the rapidly melting snow at Drogon's feet.

Her head was screaming. It was better now than it had been two — perhaps three — days past, but that was hardly saying much. Everything was a muddled mass of cold and wet and _pulling_, pulsing, pain that had plagued her from the time her children dipped below the clouds above Dragonstone.

There had been screaming in her head then, too. Remembered screams of her enemies burning and boiling in their metal suits, alight with her fury. Echoes of death throes and roaring flames which brought warmth and wetness to her thighs along with a longing series of twitches and spasms which no man but Drogo had ever brought forth… Dragonstone had glittered below them, brushed with a light dusting of fresh-fallen snow. She had imagined that the days of Aegon the Conqueror must have looked something like this, with dragons soaring free in the winds above the rocky shores, and had just lost herself in the whispered stories shared between siblings tucked away in a hidden home when the screaming came.

She had felt it before she heard it. A searing _pull_ in the depths of her very bones that had her curling in on herself so suddenly that only the ropes strapping her to Drogon's back saved her from plummeting to her death in the sea below. Her children had felt it too, and their panic threatened to drown her in the ocean's stead as their wings spasmed and shook against the _pull_. The sound came next. Screaming. Not screams of pain or death or war or bloodlust. Neither women's screams, nor men's. Hardly human at all, and yet so very much so. Sorrow and torment given voice, wailing forth from the sea. The dragons had screamed along with it, fighting the air itself as they winged their way back above the clouds. Even as the screaming had faded into the distance, Daenerys had been unable to do anything but sob into Drogon's scales for hours as her children keened the same unexplainable grief unto the sky.

Now, on all fours in the rapidly expanding slush, Daenerys felt the _pull_ release her at last as she gulped greedily at the frigid air. The dragons' distress seeped out of her mind and they, too, seemed to find solace in the North's chill. Closing her eyes, the young Queen rocked back on her haunches and settled into the crook in her son's massive wing as she revelled in the lightness in her bones.

Time passed. How much, she wasn't sure, but she gave in to the desire to remain close to her children and dozed awhile. Rhaegal and Viserion curled around them, their body heat and the shelter of Drogon's wing keeping her comfortable despite her wet clothes and the melted snow soaking through to chill her ass. She could have stayed like this forever, and may have done just that had she not been interrupted.

"Your Grace!?"

Tyrion Lannister's voice pulled her from her newfound calm and, with a sigh, Daenerys Stormborn stepped back to allow Queen Daenerys Targaryen, First of Her Name, to come forward as she emerged from her children's embrace. "Lord Tyrion," she greeted, pointedly ignoring the worry in his tone, "I trust the march is going well?"

Her Hand was working his way across the clearing, fighting through snow deep enough to swallow him whole. In fact, Daenerys could see nothing of the dwarf save for the hood of his heavy fur cloak as it bobbed above the drifts. The sight only served to make her feel colder. He'd come alone which, considering his struggles, seemed near enough to ominous to put her on edge.

"The march is going slowly, Your Grace. Very slowly." Lord Tyrion all but tumbled out of the piled snow into the melted slush caused by her children's presence (and perhaps she had done more than dozed after all, if the size of the puddle was any indication.) "Fortunately for us, as we'd have left you behind had we been able to maintain any kind of pace. We saw the dragons land this morning!"

Daenerys frowned and glanced around at the shadows cast by the winter sun. The east-falling shadows. Midafternoon, then, perhaps later. "The journey was trying," she offered in lieu of an apology.

"Of course, Your Grace," Lord Tyrion agreed, drawing to a stop at the outskirts of the dragons' reach as he looked to them for permission to approach.

The Mother of Dragons felt fondness soften her posture. "It was not my intention to cause undue worry." She stepped fully out from Drogon's shadow, but didn't bother to inform her Hand of his permission to approach. Rhaegal and Viserion had already made that abundantly clear as they chuffed happily and lowered their heads in greeting. "You know more than most about dragons — "

"No more than your family, Your Grace, I assure you," Tyrion dismissed her statement quickly.

His Queen gave him a shrewd look, but chose not to push the matter and pursued her original line of questioning instead. "Tell me, in your learning, have you come across tales of screaming? A _pulling_ kind of screaming…?"

"Screaming?" Lord Tyrion had reached her now and held out an armful of cloth and furs she hadn't noticed before, "Something dry for you, Your Grace, you must be frozen through and through."

Daenerys took the offered bundle in surprise. "Thank you," she said honestly, ducking back behind Drogon's bulk in her eagerness to shed her wet clothes. Back under the shelter of her son's wing, she wasted no time setting her frozen fingers to work tugging loose the cords binding her dress.

"Tell me more about the screaming?" Lord Tyrion suggested from the opposite side of Drogon.

The bells in her sodden braids jingled as she pulled the once deep red — now more of a sickly grey — folds of fabric over her head and tossed them aside. There would be no saving that dress. The scent of sulphur and burned men had soaked into it, along with the moisture of sleet and cloud alike. "We were in flight over Dragonstone upon our return," she explained as her wet hose landed alongside the discarded dress, followed by her smallclothes, "When we felt the screaming."

"We?"

"My children and I. We all felt it _pulling_ at our bones, tearing at our minds… I've not felt anything like it before." The clothing Lord Tyrion had brought for her were very clearly designed for warmth above all else. The breeches and dress were bulky and lined with thick fur, as were the leather boots, and even the slip and fresh hose were knit of heavy wool. She found herself grateful for her Hand's forethought as she dressed quickly.

The youngest of the Lannisters was quiet for a moment, speaking again only when his Queen stepped out to face him fully dressed once more. "Did you see anything at Dragonstone?" he asked, his mangled face pinched with thought, "Or around it perhaps?"

"A few ships on the Blackwater, but nothing of consequence."

"And do you feel it still, that pull?"

Her children shifted behind her and she walked with Lord Tyrion to the edge of the clearing, giving them room to return to the sky should they so desire. "Not since we came to ground," she replied, watching Drogon spread his wings and take flight with Viserion joining him a moment later.

Lord Tyrion made a thoughtful noise, and Daenerys found she couldn't quite interpret the expression playing on his features. "We should rejoin others, Your Grace," he said at last.

"Yes," the Queen agreed, tearing her gaze away from Rhaegal who was smacking nearby trees with his tail and snapping at the snowdrifts that tumbled from their branches, "Shall we?" Turning toward the expanse of snow and trees beyond the clearing, Daenerys set about following the shuffling trail created by her Hand's approach.

"Wait," Lord Tyrion hadn't moved from where she'd left him, still watching the dragon's antics, and though his back was to her now she was sure the same strange expression was on his face, "What of Jaime?"

Daenerys shifted slightly as her cunt quickened at the reminder of Highgarden. "I don't know." That much was the truth, at least. For Tyrion's sake, and his sake alone, she'd looked for Jaime Lannister on the battlefield. She had intended to report his fate back to his brother with certainty, nothing more, but when she had caught sight of that golden fucker astride that smoke-grey mount… Well… She hadn't _seen_ him burn, the vigour with which Drogon had responded to her fury had blanketed the fields around Highgarden with soot and flame so fierce that vision was rendered impossible for a time and when it finally cleared... She forced a settling breath and smoothed her borrowed clothes purposefully. "A few men may have escaped into the trees, but most… didn't." She watched her Hand's small frame quiver ever so slightly, whether due to the wind or the cold or grief or anger she couldn't know. What she did know, however, was that she had adhered to his wishes more than not. "It was quick."

Lord Tyrion nodded, his fur-lined hood bouncing in the wind. "Thank you." He moved then, ducking his head and brushing past her to lead the way back to the march.

The Queen followed behind him a few paces, wondering all the while if, in another life, she could ever have thanked the Usurper for giving her brother a quick death. Somehow, she didn't think she could have.

It became clear fairly quickly into the trek that Lord Tyrion had backtracked to meet her as her forces marched on northward. She had not landed far from the beaten trail and they soon found themselves trudging along a path cleared by boot and hoofprints alike. Her Hand kept up a steady stream of information in a flat, deadened tone as they walked, as though he dreaded where silence would take his thoughts. He updated her on minor conflicts between her allies, the struggles of the Dothraki horses and how many had already succumbed to the cold, the amount of soldiers (Dothraki, Unsullied and even a few Westerosi) who had fallen along with them, the time added to the march by the need to harvest and transport firewood to keep more men and horses from freezing in their beds, the number of fingers and toes and nose tips and hooves lost to the frost, the rash of lung corruption threatening to take more lives… There was, at best, two weeks of marching still facing them before they reached Winterfell. Tyrion may dread the silence, but Daenerys found herself dreading his news more and more with each word.

When he cut off abruptly midway through a report on the number of horses that had pulled up lame and consequently been butchered to sustain their food stores just the night before, she was relieved.

When she nearly trod on his still form ahead of her, that relief abandoned her as quickly as it had come.

There was a wolf standing calmly before them. At least, Daenerys assumed it was a wolf; she'd never actually seen one outside of the crude drawings in the books Ser Williem had read to them behind the safety of their red door. But this, this was hardly the lifeless scribbles of her childhood…

"Don't move," Lord Tyrion breathed.

The creature was as much of the North as the dragons were of fire. White as the snow it called home, its massive frame towered over her Hand, more similar in size to the lighter Dothraki horses than to any dog she'd ever seen. The only colour about the creature, blood-red eyes, met her own at equal height and glinted with intensity and, perhaps, curiosity. Taking Lord Tyrion's advice to heart, she stood as still as the frozen landscape around her with her arms at her sides, palms turned upward and her unsteady breathing made obvious by the erratic puffs of mist plumbing before her as the creature approached them. While her children revealed in the sound and heat and splendour of their power, the wolf was utterly silent, his movements light and fluid such that if she were not looking directly at him Daenerys wasn't sure she would know he was there.

Even as he gave Lord Tyrion a cursory sniff, his eyes remained fixed on the Queen and it took all of her willpower not to drop his gaze. Stepping around the dwarf, the creature crossed the distance between them in a single, silent, bound and circled her slowly and with purpose. There was not a sound to be heard and were it not for the pounding of her own heart in her ears, Daenerys may well have thought herself deaf. The silence pressed in on her from all sides as the wolf continued its assessment of her, its tail stiff and its steps sure.

Finally, having finished its investigation, the wolf melted back into the gently falling snow as silently as it had appeared.

Exhaling shakily, the Queen exchanged a look of relief with her Hand, who was shaking his head with his eyes still blown wide.

"A direwolf," he explained without prompting, keeping his voice soft even as they started forward again, "And unless I'm very much mistaken, a direwolf with a name. Ghost. He's Jon Snow's beast, I met him years ago when he was still but the size of a dog…"

_Ghost_... Just what kind of man was this King in the North?

Instinctively, she reached out for the familiar warmth of Drogon's mind, but found only cold.

* * *

The first settlements came as a surprise. Their scouts had reported nothing but '_hills of snow as far as the eye could see_' and they quickly realized why. The settlement was just that, mounds of snow as far as the eye could see. The buildings were snow. The roadways were packed snow frozen solid and regularly shoveled clear. The paddocks featured walls of packed snow which curved at the top to provide ample shelter for the creatures within. Sheep, buried beneath a mass of wool and fleece and almost unrecognizable compared to the hair-sheep favoured by the Lhazareen or the tightly fleeced varieties found among the Free Cities, bleated balefully as they approached while wolly aurochs and goats searched their icy homes for scraps of feed. The stables, too, were constructed of snow and ice and housed large, thick-bodied horses with coats nearly as full and shaggy as the goats and sheep around them. Daenerys caught the Dothraki eyeing the beasts with distaste and muttering among themselves as they walked.

"Ser Davos was not exaggerating, it seems," Varys observed, "Winterfell does, indeed, seem to be housing the North as a whole."

"Not just the North," Lord Tyrion corrected, his head poking out the carriage window in his attempt to study their surroundings, "The Vale as well. See there, the sigil of House Grafton , and over there is House Royce and House Coldwater and House Tollet, I believe…"

"House Royce is said to have joined Jon Snow and Sansa Stark in the retaking of Winterfell," Varys mused.

"Littlefinger's doing, no doubt," her Hand replied, "It was he who got Lady Sansa out of King's Landing after Joffrey's murder, was it not?"

"Quite so. Hardly an act of mercy, I assure you."

The Queen watched the conversation unfold around her, studying the easy back and forth between her advisors. It was rare that her Hand and the eunuch discussed matters of any kind in her presence and she found their comfort with each other off-putting. She wondered what it would be like to know another person in that way, to trust them implicitly if not always objectively, to give and take with another person without status tempering their words. She wondered if she'd come close to that with Drogo, toward the end, or perhaps Ser Jorah…

"No doubt. Do you think he means to fuck her?"

"Certainly more than you did," Varys sighed, "But make no mistake, he would climb upon her bleeding corpse to ascend the throne, just as he would anyone else."

Daenerys fought the urge to scowl. The two-week long march to Winterfell had yielded its share of revelations about her allies. From the full story of Theon Greyjoy's betrayal and attempted conquest of the North, to the fact that Olenna Tyrell had once intended to marry the King in the North's sister, Lady Sansa Stark, to her own grandson, to the exceedingly unfortunate fact that her Lord Hand had _actually_ married that same girl… The warlocks' prophecy, it seemed, gained likelihood every day.

_Three treasons will you know… Once for blood and once for gold and once for love…_

Mirri Maz Duur was blood, of that she had long been certain, while her dear bear knight had betrayed her from the off all for the promise of the Usurper's golden words, but love… She eyed the man, and the not-man, sitting across from her and frowned. Love suited neither of them.

They passed through the snow town without incident, and soon the Queen vacated the relative shelter of the carriage in favour of leading the march on horseback. The roadways were free of people and the houses had their doors firmly shut against the chill, the tendrils of smoke rising from every mound of snow and the animals in their paddocks were all that betrayed the fact that they were not alone. It was only once they were within the massive stone walls which separated Winterfell from the frozen expanses around it that Daenerys got her first look at the Northern people.

If they were as cold as her own forces, they did not show it. There was no hunch to their shoulders, no chins tucked as best they could manage beneath the collars of their cloaks, no stumbles brought on by frozen feet or blackened toes… The folks who eyed their procession warily reminded her almost painfully of Ser Jorah. They were rugged, as thick-bodied as their mounts, and boosted solemn faces featuring dark features and hair and light skin flushed from the cold.

Past the inner walls which separated Winterfell's main Keep from the rest of the castle the onlookers lost all subtlety as they crowded the courtyard, murmuring and pointing amongst themselves, but it was the figures in the centre of the courtyard which drew the Queen's attention.

The wolf was there, seated calmly in the snow, but Daenerys ignored it in favour of studying the people on either side. Lady Sansa Stark was beautiful. Dark red hair, half tied back with a simple braid, blue eyes and high cheekbones framed a face many a woman would kill for. She was clothed simply in an inky grey dress adorned with light grey wolves stitched across the chest and modest jewels which did nothing to take away from her appearance. While Daenerys' Valyrian face and thin frame often had her mistaken for younger than her years, the Lady of Winterfell had no such trouble. She was tall and womanly and elegant in a way that the Mother of Dragon's ethereal appearance couldn't manage.

Next to her, the self-proclaimed King in the North was easily overlooked. Perhaps it was the Northern way but, like his sister, Jon Snow looked older than his years. He certainly had the look of a Northerner, with the same dark colouring she had observed in his people during the march in. He wore no crown and only the quality of his clothing and his thick fur-lined cloak hinted at his status. Where he differed from the other Northmen around him was in stature. He was small for a man and leaner, for the most part, than those he commanded. Still, he was handsome enough, Daenerys noted. While not as striking in appearance as his sister, there was a prettiness to his features that was obvious even from a distance.

As she drew her mount to a halt before them, Jon Snow looked up at her calmly.

"Your Grace," he greeted, "Welcome to Winterfell."


	20. THE WOLF AND THE DRAGON

**THE WOLF AND THE DRAGON**

Gendry IV

Gendry's knees ached. Arya might fit into impossible spaces like a fucking shadow, but all he got for his trouble were scrapes, bruises and angry joints for weeks afterwards. Still, Arya wanted to see the Dragon Queen so here they were, tucked away in a seldom used servants' passage with sightlines to the proceedings below. It was a thoroughly unpleasant hiding place; dark and damp and musty, with that bone deep cold only wet spaces seemed capable of creating. Gendry shivered unhappily but kept his complaints to himself. Arya crouched at his side, as silent and still as the stone surrounding them as she peered through the gap in damaged bricks with narrowed eyes. The smith wasn't sure why this particular passage hadn't been repaired along with the rest of the castle, but he tried his best to ignore the nagging thought that it had been deemed too unsafe to bother with…

The Great Hall was deserted save for the small group King Jon and Lady Sansa had accompanied in from the snow. There were only four figures in total and as the two Northerners settled themselves at the High Table, Gendry got his first look at the foreign queen.

She was, in a word, beautiful. Pure white hair jingled with each movement of her intricate braid as she removed her snow-covered hood, allowing the torchlight to glint off the bells weaved into it. Her skin was milk white and smooth in a way the women of Flea Bottom could only dream of, even where it was flushed with cold. She stood a bit taller than Arya, and while both of them were slender and small-chested the Dragon Queen projected an air of undeniable womanhood. It was the hips, Gendry reasoned, and the gentle slope where her back met her ass… And the softness... No one could ever accuse Arya of being soft. Her face, too — with her violet eyes and dainty features — was pretty in that impossible way that only his mother had been…

"Your father murdered her brother and destroyed her family, she's not going to spread her legs for you."

"I — what? No," Gendry was dragged back to reality by his best friend's whispered words and felt himself redden, "Fuck off, Arry."

Arya looked decidedly unimpressed. She cuffed him upside the head and gestured pointedly at the scene below. A woman with skin the colour of boiled leather and dark, curled hair the likes of which Gendry had never seen before had stepped forward with her hands folded at her waist and her eyes respectfully downcast as she addressed the room.

"Your Grace," her voice held the same precision as her posture, and for all Gendry knew she was a foreigner her cadence was that of every highborn he'd ever come across in King's Landing, "My Lady. You are in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, the rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, The rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Princess of Dragonstone, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons."

"It is an honour to receive you," Lady Sansa replied, all polish and politics, from her place at the King's side, "May I present Jon Snow of the House Stark, First of His Name, the Shield that Guards the Realms of Men, King Crow, The White Wolf and King in the North."

Arya made an odd little noise beside him, which may have been a quickly stifled laugh, as they exchanged a glance in the darkness before the dark-skinned woman spoke again.

"It is customary to kneel when addressing your queen."

This time the look that passed between the two old friends was weary. The immediate shift in the mood below was evident even from their perch.

"Rightful Queen, I believe was the title. Or did I hear wrong?" Lady Sansa's voice was far too pleasant, and Gendry noticed Arya's hand drifting toward the sword at her hip, "You are guests in our home and on our lands, every custom that I am aware of dictates your hosts be treated with respect."

The Queen raised a gloved hand before her advisor could respond, and the other woman stepped back immediately. "I must ask your forgiveness, but I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage."

The King, who had seemed willing to let his sister feel out their guests, chose that moment to speak up. "Your Grace, may I present my sister, Lady Sansa of the House Stark, the Lady of Winterfell. I'm certain your advisor meant no offence with her suggestions, titles and formalities can be complicated enough even if you haven't just arrived from another land."

"Quite," the Dragon Queen agreed, "And yet, I am the heir to House Targaryen, a House to which your own has sworn fealty in perpetuity."

"You are," Lady Sansa drew the conversation her way again, "And yet, what of the thousands of years and wars and oaths that came before your family? What of the Marsh Kings and the Storm Kings, the Barrow Kings and the Kings of Winter and all those who ruled over the First Men? What of the Children of the Forest and the Giants who roamed these lands before them? Or the Andal Kings who came after? The Kings of the Rock? The Kings of Mountain and Vale? The Kings of the Trident?"

"They all bent the knee and swore fealty to my family when Aegon and his dragons arrived."

"As they had done to each other with each war that came before, and as they did again when your father and brother fell to House Baratheon."

"House Baratheon is dead." An unfamiliar voice joined the conversation, and Gendry realized that he had failed to notice the fifth figure in the hall. A dwarf with blonde hair and a badly scared face stepped out from behind the Dragon Queen. Tyrion Lannister, he was sure of it. Even in the slums of his youth there were tales of the Imp of Casterly Rock. He'd never seen a dwarf full-grown, only the stunted children abandon to a life of begging until their inevitable death by starvation — or worse. He wondered if the little Lord had ever walked those filthy streets and thought on what could have been...

"Yes," Lady Sansa's mild reply kept the smith's thoughts from wandering any further, "And new oaths have since been sworn, new marriages brokered, new Kings and Queens crowned…"

"The Realm moves on, Your Grace. It has too. It cannot wait for the fallen to, perhaps, rise again." Like his sister, the King kept his tone even as he rose to his feet at the Head Table, "The North is an independent kingdom once more, as it has been for all but three hundred years, but that does not mean we cannot help each other."

The Dragon Queen's ethereal face hardened into something much more human. "Surely you have not invited us here under false pretenses?" she challenged, "I have been repeatedly assured that you are an honest and honourable man, if that is not the case…"

A monstrous cry echoed overhead and reverberated through the castle, causing Gendry to startle so badly he nearly pitched forward out of their hiding place in shock. Somehow, the _idea_ of dragons differed completely from _actual fucking dragons_. A glance toward the youngest Stark revealed her left hand now fully on the hilt of her blade and Godsdamned _smile_ on her face. Seven Hells, he almost missed Flea Bottom…

"Aye," King Jon agreed, somehow ignoring the monsters' reminder of their presence, "I try to be both of those things, as best I can, and assure you I have been nothing but honest with you thus far."

The dwarf Lord stepped forward as he looked between the two monarchs. "Your letter proposed an alliance…"

"It did," the King agreed, "War is coming, the most terrible war in living memory, and only together do we stand a chance of living to see winter through."

"Surely Cersei Lannister does not frighten you so much?" Queen Daenerys questioned, her tone just short of a scoff.

"We are not fools enough to discount the danger of her cruelty," Lady Sansa returned coolly, "As I'm sure Lady Olenna can attest to. But no, at this moment Cersei Lannister means nothing."

The Dragon Queen exchanged looks with her advisors and likely would have replied if a massive white shape hadn't all but materialized behind them. Gendry had heard about Ghost, he'd even seen him at a distance when Arya pointed him out, but seeing him indoors was something else entirely. The massive wolf stalked the length of the hall, ignoring the Targaryen Queen and her advisors in favour of flopping down to lounge under the Head Table at the King's feet. The dark-skinned woman who had first addressed the room seemed to have a similar reaction to the sight of him as Gendry himself had experienced at the sound of the dragons, her eyes going comically wide.

"There's no cause for concern," Lady Sansa smiled pleasantly, "This is Ghost."

"Yes," to the Dragon Queen's credit, she maintained her poise even with the interruption, "We've met."

"I do hope he didn't spook your horses too badly, direwolves are known to do that." Lady Sansa almost sounded sincere.

Arya snorted another quickly stifled laugh.

Queen Daenerys, however, did not seem amused. "Not at all. My forces ride mounts accustomed to my children. The wolf's presence was hardly an inconvenience."

As the two women continued to eye each other, Lord Tyrion stepped forward to defuse the situation. "What of this war, then?" he asked the King.

"Grumpkins and Snarks."

_Wait, what? _Gendry was about to ask Arya just what in Seven Hells her brother was on about, but Lord Tyrion's reaction stayed his tongue. The dwarf seemed to understand the nonsensical reply, if the frown creasing his mangled face was any indication.

"The White Walkers?" he asked.

"Aye," King Jon replied darkly, "They're real. I've seen them, and the Army of the Dead they command. I've fought them, and I lost. We all lost." He exchanged a look with Lady Sansa before heaving a heavy sigh, "Winter is here, Your Grace, and the dead are coming — "

"The dead," the Dragon Queen repeated, her tone somewhere between mockery and disbelief, "And what sort of numbers should I expect from these '_dead_?'"

King Jon sank back into his seat, but try as he might, Gendry couldn't make out his expression. "Hundreds of thousands, at least," he replied, his tone grim, "There were one hundred thousand free folk gathered at Hardhome alone when we arrived to bring them south of the Wall. By the time the Walkers and their army were finished with us, only five thousand people escaped with their lives. The rest…" He shook his head, but when he spoke again, his voice betrayed nothing but mild acceptance. "You think me mad, of course, and you've every reason to. Regardless, the North's hospitality will stand for so long as we are at truce and I hope that we can continue to discuss the future of the realm during that time. As a sign of good faith, I would see one of your loyal advisors returned to your service." He turned to his sister and nodded.

Lady Sansa rose to her feet gracefully and moved to one of the hall's side doors. "Lady Brienne, if you could bring Ser Jorah forward?"

Gendry recognized Lady Sansa's sworn sword, with her custom armour and Valyrian Steel blade, as she escorted an older man into the hall. He was obviously Northern, with dark features and a stocky build, and his age seemed only exaggerated by the bandages he wore over the left side of his face and left hand both. The smith couldn't help but wonder what those wrappings kept hidden away…

"Khaleesi," the man's voice was rough with emotion, but still he looked to the King for permission before moving to kneel before the Dragon Queen, "I return myself to your service, if you'll have me?"

The Dragon Queen's posture changed instantly, her rigid stance shifting into something softer and more welcoming as she reached out to the kneeling man. Her hands stopped just short of him, hovering by his shoulders. "Hash yer chek?" **[1]**

The harsh sounds that came out of such a delicate girl were a surprise, but they must have meant something because the man raised his head. With his back to their hiding place Gendry could only guess at his expression, but his voice sounded _happy_. "Anha zin, khaleesi." **[2]**

She smiled then, full and true, and if he'd thought her beautiful before… Gendry shifted uncomfortably, well aware of Arya's gaze and the wicked smirk on her face. Ignoring his little bitch of a best friend, the smith watched as the Dragon Queen helped the stranger to his feet and embraced him tightly.

"Hash tat yer jadat tat tikh kijinosi valshe? Tat mori fichat yer athnithar?" **[3]** She rattled off another string of nonsense sounds when they broke apart.

"Anha came anni zhorre seris tikh. Jin ki anna ramasar, finne ato kashi." **[4]**

"Perhaps you would like to reacquaint yourselves in private?" Lady Sansa, who had returned to her seat to watch the reunion play out, suggested as she gestured to her sworn sword once more, "Lady Brienne will show you to your rooms."

Queen Daenerys snapped back into her regal posture in the blink of an eye and addressed the Lady of Winterfell with as much poise as ever. "I am honoured by the offer, My Lady, however I will be remaining with my people."

"Of course," King Jon cut in smoothly, "Lady Brienne will walk with you back to your camp. The snows can be treacherous to those who've not grown up with them underfoot." He smiled, here, and made certain to address his next words to all three visitors, "I had hoped you would join us here again this evening, we're having a small feast prepared to welcome you properly."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Lord Tyrion spoke up again, "We would be honoured to attend."

As the visitors excused themselves and made their goodbyes, Gendry rocked back on his haunches and turned to face Arya in the gloom. "That was…"

"Yes," Arya agreed in a whisper, "It was."

The smith released a long breath and shook his head.

_That_ had been a scale model of war. Or a cock measuring contest. Honestly, Gendry wasn't sure those weren't the same thing, but suffice to say women could measure just as well as men.

"You can come out now," the King's voice echoed up to their hiding place suddenly.

Arya rolled her eyes, but the action was fond. "Come on, then," she muttered, scooting off into the darkness with more ease that should have been possible.

Gendry clumped along after her, muttering curses as he went.

* * *

By the time Gendry found himself back in the familiar heat of the forge, the whole of Winterfell was abuzz with whispers of the Dragon Queen. Very few were accurate, mostly exaggerated tales based on glimpses that featured scaled skin, demonic wings or some form of gratuitous nudity. Even the other smiths had stories to tell. She had commissioned a metal corset of crawling dragons to be worn in place of dress or slip from a haggard-looking youth who could scarcely form a serviceable blade. She had ridden another in a dark corner and screamed out that he was better than any dragon when he spilled his seed inside her. She had licked her tits at the sight of a spotty boy's cock and pleasured a white-bearded old smith with her ebony wings…

Arry put an end to the gossip with a particularly descriptive tale wherein the conquering hero lost his manhood to Daenerys Stormborn's claw-like fingernails before being devoured by her dragons piece by piece.

With their cocks now well and truly flaccid, the forge slowly returned to its usual state of business.

"You didn't have to make her out to be a monster," Gendry pointed out as they worked together to flatten a piece of steel intended to become a breastplate, "Surely that won't help your brother's plan."

Arry shrugged between hammer blows. "And if I'd told them she's unyielding and capable, do you think they would respect her more?" she asked, "Men only respect what might harm their little dagger." She paused in her hammering long enough to wiggle a finger between her legs mockingly.

The problem, Gendry mused as he returned the steel to the flames, was that she wasn't wrong. He remembered the group of young men on the march to Winterfell and their laughing plans to fuck Lady Sansa. He remembered the way their fellow captives' gazes had turned more _hungry_ when Arya had been revealed as a girl at Harrenhal. He remembered women with blood-soaked skirts left the tidy themselves up in forgotten alleys as their satisfied customers laughed. He remembered the bodies of the female paupers who would never be paid. Hells, he could even remember the bruises on his mother's pale face…

"Do you ever wish you were born a boy?" he asked over his shoulder as he worked the bellows.

"Of course," Arya's response was quick and sure and _obvious_, "But wishes only come true in songs and stories. I am what I am."

Despite asking the question, Gendry found that he had no response to that and they fell back into the rhythm of working without further comment.

It was a testament to the force with which, some time later, the worn pile of metal was deposited next to him that it made enough noise to cause the young smith to jump despite the clamour of the forge.

His hammer skipped off the now-roughed out breastplate and landed dangerously close to the fingers of his other hand as the surprise gave way to anger. "The fuck do you think you're playin' at?" he snapped, rounding on the newcomer only to freeze at the sight of him.

"Couldn't even make it with a dead man and a drunk," the Hound snarled, "Should've known you'd end up in this frozen shithole."

Gendry scowled, glancing down at the pile of scrap properly to find that it was the battered remnants of the armour he'd last seen the man wearing at his trial by combat. "Yes, I can see you've managed much better," he fired back sarcastically. He noticed, in that part of his mind that was always tracking her movements, that Arry had slipped away and busied herself with her back to them while they'd been speaking and took the unspoken cue to keep the other man busy. "This is hardly worth repairing. What did you do, fall off a cliff?"

One of the remaining muscles in the Hound's burned jaw twitched.

_Huh_. He'd have to see if Arya knew what that was about.

"Fuck your excuses," Clegane growled, "Fix it, or it's you I'll throw off a cliff."

Gendry bit back the retort that wanted to break free (this was the Hound, he wouldn't put it past him to find a cliff and carry out his threat) and gathered up the old armour instead. He deposited it in front of Arry to be cleaned for examination before returning his attention to its owner. "Won't be ready for a few days, and even then I can't work miracles."

"Tomorrow. I'm not going naked with the dragon bitch here."

"That's not — " Gendry began to argue, but Clegane wasn't listening.

"Girl."

Arya's movements slowed and Gendry saw an odd expression quirk her lips. She sighed, her body relaxing from Arry the orphaned smith's apprentice into the agile predator that Arya had become as she turned around to face them. "You're not dead, then."

"No thanks to you."

Arya watched him impassively, accepting his words without argument or explanation.

Clegane shook his head with a sneer. "Your sister is looking for you."

"Who told you that?" Arya laughed, a smirk playing on her face, "I assure you, Sansa is not looking for anyone."

"Hhm," the Hound looked almost impressed behind the anger and general disgust for just a moment, before the expression vanished as quickly as it had come. He turned back to the smith with his usual scowl back in place, "By tomorrow, boy."

With one final glare, Clegane made to stalk off but paused briefly at the entrance to their little alcove. "Be careful, girl. Your father played the game and lost his head, your mother and brother too."

Arya only smiled. "Not this game."

* * *

_**1\. **Are you well?_

_**2\. **I am my Queen._

_**3\. **How did you come to be in the North? Did they bring you pain?_

_**4\. **I came of my own free will. This was my land, at one time._


	21. THE WILES OF WOMEN

**THE WILES OF WOMEN**

Jon IV

Feasts had not been a common occurrence in his youth, his Lord father citing the senseless waste of food as reason to abstain from such extravagance, and non-existent at the Wall. Even on those rare occasions when a guest's presence saw a modest feast served in Winterfell's hall, Jon had been relegated to the lower tables while his trueborn siblings played the roles of Lords and Ladies at the High Table. His own role had never been made more clear than during those festivities. The Bastard of Winterfell. Lord Eddard Stark's Shame. It had hurt, then, when he was too young and naïve to understand how fortunate he truly was. Now he longed for the anonymity of the crowd.

Instead, he sat at the centre of the High Table — in the seat once occupied by his father, the one meant for Robb or Bran or Rickon — flanked on both sides by beautiful women. Sansa was seated to his right, her hair all but glowing red in the firelight as she conversed with the circulating Lords and Ladies. To his left, Daenerys _bloody_ Targaryen surveyed the hall with the same closed-off expression she'd worn since her arrival. While his eldest sister seemed more comfortable with the foreign queen in front of her, Jon had never doubted his plan more. Watching the two women spar verbally with each other had been a painful reminder of his social (not to mention political) ineptitude. True, they had accomplished their goal in that first conversation — the Mother of Dragons was here and Winterfell was not on fire — but still, he found himself second guessing his every move around her.

Gods, even the dragons themselves were less intimidating.

Arya had barely dropped from some shadowed crevice above the Great Hall before she had started in on him, wondering mockingly what his cock thought of their guest. The Baratheon bastard, Gendry, had flushed deep red at that so he supposed there was a reason for her teasing but still, Jon liked to think he based his impression on more than just looks. That was not to say there was nothing to look at. Daenerys Targaryen was a beautiful woman, what with her almost inhuman features, dainty frame, white hair and violet eyes… He could hear Theon's mocking voice in his head, laughing that a bastard who so feared pretty girls that he couldn't even fuck a whore was truly destined for the Wall.

And _that_ had been something he hadn't considered.

Theon Turncloak had slipped into Winterfell like a beaten dog with his tail between his legs.

Sansa had greeted him warmly, hurrying out to embrace the man who had once been their family without reservation. Jon did not join her. He understood enough to know that he _couldn't_ understand what had transpired between them, and as such he had not interfered. He had searched out Lady Yara Greyjoy, however, and made it clear that should her brother ever set foot within Winterfell's main keep again, he would take his head himself. She'd offered no rebuttal, accepting his threat with an ease that suggested she expected nothing less.

Yara Greyjoy, he decided as he spotted her laughing comfortably among a group of rowdy men at one of the lower tables, was everything Theon had ever tried to be. Bold, sexually confident, a respected commander and made of iron and sea salt both in equal measure. She wasn't pretty, but she didn't have to be as she commanded attraction in other ways. She and Ygritte would have got on… Or got straight inside each other. Neither woman seemed the type to turn down a good fuck. He shook himself free of those thoughts before he could start considering how Arya would fit in.

His little sister was nowhere to be seen, but Jon had no doubt she was lurking somewhere nearby. What she could do — appearing and disappearing almost at will, slipping into and out of anywhere, her proficiency with her little Needle and any other weapon they'd spared with since his return — what she had _become_… His already damaged heart broke for what the girl he'd hugged goodbye had been forced to endure. The wild wolf pup she had been was still in there and Jon treasured those moments he glimpsed her in the depth of his sister's eyes or the quirk of her lips or an expressive gesture...

He had sought Arya out this evening before _King Jon_ was expected to brave the feast. Queen Daenerys' dragons had been circling Winterfell all day, so he had followed a hunch and scaled the castle walls when he was certain Sansa wasn't looking. He found his sister perched in the window of the Broken Tower, staring out at the sky. She scooted over for him as he hauled himself ungracefully up the final few feet, and they sat together in silence as the winter winds whipped snow into their hair.

"Do you ever wish I'd been born a boy?" she'd asked at last, her gaze still fixed on the horizon.

The question had come out of nowhere, and Jon had frowned as he considered it. Arya was the girl who wouldn't be. She always had been. She was wild and loud and angry and active and so _alive_ in a way he had never been. She was the one who pulled him from his brooding and into the real world, the one who pushed him to rebel and prodded him until he learned to laugh… Robb would always be his first friend, but Arya was his _best_ friend.

Her life would have been so much easier as a boy, he knew that. She could have run and played and trained with Robb and Bran without reprimand. Perhaps she and Bran would have ridden South together to become knights? Or perhaps their father would have seen her take command of the Neck and rule over the region in his stead? The part of him who loved his sister more than anything wished she could have had that life, and yet…

The selfish part of him couldn't help but think that perhaps she wouldn't have been _Arya_ had she been a boy. Perhaps if she hadn't been different and just that little bit _wrong, _she would never have looked to her bastard brother for companionship. Perhaps if she hadn't had to _fight_ so hard to be herself, she wouldn't have grown so loud…

"No," he'd told her.

Arya had looked at him then, her lips quirked in that way that let the little girl peek through. "Do you remember playing Dragon Conquest in the Godswood?" she'd asked him, "Robb always wanted to be Torrhen Stark, I'd wear red and black and pretend to be Visenya and you'd be Aegon — "

"As I recall, you'd make me pretend to be Vhagar."

"That's only because Bran couldn't carry me and I didn't want to ride Theon."

Jon had laughed, then, at the wording and the memories and the _rightness_ of the moment.

Arya had knocked their shoulders together with a smirk. "Shut up," she'd snarked playfully before looking back toward the circling beasts above, "They're just like I imagined…"

Jon had followed her gaze and watched as one of the dragons dropped lower than the others and soared gracefully past their hiding place. "Me too…"

"Your Grace."

Pulled back to the present, Jon almost smiled to himself. _Speaking of loud little girls who demand respect_… "Lady Lyanna."

The Lady of Bear Island had approached the Head Table while he had been remembering and stood before him now, as straight-backed and controlled as ever, while angling herself such that they had a modicum of privacy from the Dragon Queen and her advisors. "I hope my cousin's return served its purpose?"

Jon offered the child a slight smile. "It didn't hurt," he told her, honestly, "I must thank you once again for your permission, my Lady."

"You had no need of it, Your Grace."

"Perhaps, but I was glad to have it all the same."

Lyanna, somehow, straightened even further. "Bear Island has no use for traitors — "

"Ned!" a voice shouted out from the mass of bodies.

Jon's head snapped up to gaze over young Lyanna's head. It wasn't him. He _knew_ it wasn't. But he searched all the same. Next to him, Sansa seemed to have had a similar reaction — albeit far less obvious than his own.

The voice seemed to have come from a sizeable group of Dornish men who had entered the hall in search of more food for those gathered outside. One man, in particular, had separated from the group and was weaving his way deftly through the gathered crowd toward a pale-haired youth Jon recognized as Lord Edric Dayne. The newcomer must have seen thirty namedays, perhaps a few more, and boosted a striking appearance with sharp features and shoulder-length silver hair streaked with black. With the general ruckus of the feast still at full swing it was impossible to make out any further words the two shared, but the stiffness in Lord Dayne's posture was unmistakable.

Jon frowned, curiosity quelling his insecurities for the moment as he leaned closer to the Targaryen Queen. "Pardon the interruption, Your Grace, but might I inquire as to the identity of the silver haired soldier?"

Queen Daenerys, who had been speaking quietly with the advisor he had come to learn was named Missandei in what sounded to his untrained ear like Valyrian, looked over at him with an unreadable expression before following his gaze to the man in question. "Ser Gerold Dayne," she replied, "A Dornish Lord under Ellaria Sand's command."

"Dorne is ruled by a woman bastard?"

"As the North is ruled by a bastard King."

Jon could think of no response to that, but was saved from his social ineptitude by the curious expression his fellow monarch was directing at Bear Island's little Lady.

"Your Grace, may I present Lady Lyanna Mormont," he introduced them quickly, "Lady of Bear Island and cousin to your Ser Jorah. My Lady, this is Queen Daenerys Targaryen of Meereen and the Dothraki Sea."

"Your Grace." Lady Lyanna offered the barest hint of a bow as she examined their guest without shame.

"My Lady," Queen Daenerys returned, offering the girl a gentle smile, "I'm honoured to make your acquaintance. Your cousin has served me well for many years."

"Alas, he did not extend that same service to his own House." Blunt and concise, as always, Lady Mormont's demeanour did not change even as the smile slipped from the visiting Queen's face and a begrudging respect took its place. "Surely you have been informed of the White Walkers?"

Taking Lady Lyanna in better stride than he himself had upon first meeting her, the Dragon Queen straightened her posture slightly. "Your King has mentioned them, yes."

"Good. I've no intention of allowing a single man, woman or child from Bear Island to join their army's ranks." The young Lady's conviction was palpable. Without waiting for a response, she turned and bowed to her King before glancing back at their guest. "Perhaps my cousin can yet be of use among your forces," she added, before making her way back to her seat.

Both monarchs watched her go in silence.

"You've quite a number of women in positions of authority," Queen Daenerys observed at last.

Jon fought the urge to shrug and instead tried to match her posture as he replied. "The Seven Kingdoms have been at war for some time now, and plenty of Houses have paid the price for that. Bear Island was left in a precarious position when Ser Jorah fled to Essos. His father had taken the Black to allow his son to rule as Lord and when he left with no other male heirs available, control was passed to his aunt — Lady Lyanna's mother, Maege Mormont," he explained, being sure to avoid mentioning _why_ Ser Jorah had been forced to flee. He was sure that the Queen must know of her advisor's transgressions and who ordered his punishment, but it was not something he had any inclination to discuss. "When she and her elder daughter were killed fighting for my brother, Lyanna assumed control of Bear Island. She was six, I believe."

"She's quite something."

"She is. I count myself lucky to hold her allegiance."

The silence that overtook them this time seemed more natural than the last, but still Jon had to fight the urge to rub at the ever growing tension in his chest. The steel adorning his brigandine — the only symbol of status he had allowed Sansa to dress him in — seemed heavier than his damaged chest could manage, and the raised wolves at his breast mocked him with each laboured breath. They were not his to wear. He didn't belong here...

Wrestling back control of his rapidly deteriorating thoughts, Jon looked out over the feast. Gerold Dayne and Dornish soldiers seemed to have made their way back outside, and the King noted that young Lord Edric had returned to his place at Lord Beric's side. Neither man appeared to be eating. The same could not be said for Lord Tyrion, who sat further down the table in the company of Podrick Payne. The two men seemed in good spirits, and rather deep in their cups, as they chatted loudly. The Red Priest, Thoros, could be seen trying to join their conversation with limited success as his excessive consumption of ale had rendered him unable to lift his head from the table. Lady Brienne stood against a nearby wall, watching the scene with a disapproving scowl.

At the next table over, the mood was much the same. Yara Greyjoy and the other Lords of the Iron Islands had begun regaling their tablemates with various bawdy drinking songs and the Dothraki and Dornish Lords around them were now responding in kind. Jon found himself equal parts relieved and disappointed that the free folk were already at the Wall. Still, it didn't take long for more familiar songs to begin echoing around the Hall as the Northern Lords made their presence known. There were so many different voices and accents and languages that it took the King a moment to notice that Old Tongue had joined the mix as well.

The Chieftains of the Mountain Clans sat at yet another table, offering an enthusiastic rendition of a song Jon could have sworn he'd heard beyond the Wall to the growing din. The Ned's Boy, they had called him when he'd gone to meet with all the Lords and Ladies who had settled around Winterfell in person. The Ned Again. Despite his best efforts to explain that The Ned's boys had been Robb and Bran and Rickon, it had been The Ned Returned to whom they'd bid farewell. And they hadn't been the only ones. Wolfson had been the greeting he had received from the Magnars of Skagos. They had not joined the feast, Jon observed, but that was hardly a surprise.

He'd not known much of the North's northernmost subjects before their arrival, only a few days before the Dragon Queen, besides rumours and terrifying tales whispered between children on stormy nights. Monstrous men, it was said, just as viscous and wild as wildlings. Savages who still practiced the tradition of First Night, some whispered, while others denied they had any concept of marriage to begin with and instead lay with whatever woman they could hold still long enough. Human sacrifice before the Weirwood trees. Ghostly songs and false lights that lured ships to their death. Shaggy unicorns as likely to run a man through as their masters… Jon had sent a raven all the same.

He'd written it out twice, once in the Common Tongue and again (with Tormund's help before he made for the wall) in the runic script of Old Tongue. Still, he'd not expected anything to come of it. Robb had been taught little more than their existence in his lessons and told his siblings once that even their father had never met a Skagg. That was one of the few instances in which he could recall Lord Stark growing angry with his heir. The term was a slur, he'd told them, and they were forbidden from repeating it. Having met them now, Jon understood why.

Skagos, it seemed, had been a refuge of sorts during the Age of Heroes. Children of the Forest and Giants and, later, First Men had fled there in search of safety. Jon couldn't be sure what they had needed safety from, the Magnars spoke a strange dialect of Old Tongue mixed with sounds men would have no hope of recreating and communication between them was limited, but fear was the same among all creatures and they were _afraid_. Whether Eddard Stark knew the full tale behind Skagos' existence or whether he simply respected his people on principle without need for details, Jon would never know for certain but he was glad for the lessons on respect all the same.

While the Magnars of Skagos could perhaps pass for men at a distance — they shared the blood of the first men, after all — such was not the case for all of their people.

Standing an average of seven feet tall, their height was clearly a result of Giant ancestors if their features were anything to go by. Even the Magnars boasted long arms, oversized hands and hair thick enough to be considered a pelt blanketing their lower half. Their upper body was rife with hair as well, as coarse as that below if far less thick toward their chests and shoulders, that varied in colour from black to brown to tan to grey. They had faces that reminded him of Wun Wun, squished and wrinkled save for the round protrusion of their nasal cavity and the wide, shapeless noses that sat atop it. That, however, was where the Giant features ended. The skin beneath their fur was dark, ranging from nut-brown (in those with more First Men blood) to a muted colour somewhere between brown and green, and dappled with pale speckles. Their eyes, in contrast to the Giants, were large and round and slit like those of a cat. They moved far more swiftly than men, their legs as long as their arms, and wore no shoes revealing feet with only three large toes and black claws in place of nails. Their hands, likewise, had only three long, flat fingers along with their thumb…

From their appearance alone Jon could understand their vicious reputation, but their actions thus far had done little to support it.

"_The sea is dead,_" they had told him, huddled together in the Wolfswood in a protective circle around their children, "_The sea is dead. Fire, Wolfson, the sea is dead._"

At least, Jon was fairly certain that's what they had been saying. In their hysteria, their dialect had been near impossible for him to understand.

He had taken Sansa to meet them the morning before Queen Daenerys had arrived, acting as a poor excuse for a translator as the children peeked out from the safety of their elders' bulk and trilled curiously to each other while gently touching his sister's hair. It had occurred to him, as he watched her smile gently and hold out sections of her deep red locks to the shyer children, how much she had grown. As a girl, Sansa would never have approached such strange looking beings, let alone take the time to interact with them, yet here she was... He hadn't been able to help the surge of pride the thought had brought him.

Pulling himself back to the present, he looked to his sister expecting to see some flicker of amusement at the songs still battling for dominance within the hall, but he was instead greeted by a stoic expression that could only mean one thing. Sure enough, Lord Baelish appeared before them a moment later.

"My Lady. Your Grace," he nodded to each of them in turn with what Jon considered to be a deceptively pleasant smile, before addressing the Dragon Queen with a short bow, "Your Grace, it's an honour to make your acquaintance. I must say, you look so like your Queen mother."

Queen Daenerys' polite disinterest sharpened ever so slightly, and she eyed Baelish curiously. "And you are?"

"Lord Petyr Baelish, Your Grace. Lord of Harrenhal and Lord Protector of the Vale."

"Lord Protector of the Vale," the Queen repeated, "My Lord Hand was surprised to see so many non-Northern Houses among those gathered here. Should I assume, then, that you are responsible for their presence?"

"Lord Baelish and the Knights of the Vale rode to assist us in retaking Winterfell," Sansa cut in before Littlefinger could reply, "Their presence was an integral part of our victory."

_An understatement_, Jon thought sourly, and if the smirk on Baelish's face was any indication he thought so too.

"Lady Sansa is my niece-by-law," he smiled easily, "Of course we would ride to her aid."

"For which the North is very grateful." Jon forced a smile of his own.

"I see," Queen Daenerys did not bother to mimic their expressions, "And, Lord Baelish, you say you knew my mother?"

"Not personally, I'm afraid, but like many I admired her from afar. She was a conscientious and dutiful Queen."

"I'm pleased to hear it." Jon noted that she didn't _sound_ pleased. "Tell me, my Lord, which ruler does your Vale serve?"

"The King in the North, Your Grace," Littlefinger replied as though the answer was obvious, but Jon still released a breath he hadn't known he was holding, "His Grace, Jon Snow."

"Not Cersei Lannister upon the Iron Throne?" the Dragon Queen queered mildly.

"Not at all, Your Grace. Few serve her willingly, I assure you." Baelish bowed once more, this time to the three of them. "I'll leave you to your meals. Your Grace. Your Grace. My Lady."

"I've met men like him before," Queen Daenerys mused once the Lord Protector of the Vale had disappeared into the crowd, "They look at you as though you're nothing but meat."

"Yes." Jon was sure he failed to keep the surprise off his face as his sister replied honestly, "But they do have their uses."

Queen Daenerys hummed in agreement. "Tell me something, Jon Snow," she said after a moment, turning her violet gaze on him, "Why propose this truce?"

"The White Walkers and their army — "

"Yes, yes," she interrupted, "The dead. Even pretending they're real and the cold hasn't driven you all to madness, why reach out to me? Our families were at war not twenty years past, surely you were raised to hate me as much as I was you?"

"My father was never one for hate," Jon replied truthfully. He remembered Theon's shock at finding the Stark children playing make believe as dragonriders and his fear that should Lord Stark find out they would all be punished, but Lord Stark had never forbidden them from their dragon games nor spoken ill of anyone beyond recounting their deeds… "Regardless, I prefer to pass my own judgement and I've had nothing but pleasant experiences with your family."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I was a sworn Brother of the Night's Watch for several years…" Jon told her, but the information did nothing to clear the confusion from her face. He'd always assumed the knowledge went both ways, but perhaps... "You don't know, do you? He knew of you…"

Those violet eyes were narrowed, now. "Who did?"

"The maester at Castle Black. Maester Aemon Targaryen. Brother to Aegon the Unlikely, I believe, who refused the throne in favour of his maester's vows."

The Queen stared at him. "I was told my family was slaughtered," she said at last, her voice soft and almost disbelieving, "That my brother and I were all that remained of our House…"

Jon nodded in sympathy. He knew all too well what it was to _not know_. He knew what it was to wonder what aspects of yourself were down to blood you would never know, and he knew the hole that was left in that knowledge's place… "Aye, your family met a cruel end," he replied, "But the Night's Watch plays no part in the affairs of Kings and Queens and its members are beyond their reach. Even if Robert Baratheon knew of Maester Aemon' existence, he could have done nothing about it."

Queen Daenerys was quiet for a moment. "He knew of me. Knew."

"Yes," the King saw no reason to gentle his words. She would likely resent him for patronizing her, "He had already seen more than one hundred namedays by the time I met him. The years won out, in the end, and he passed away peacefully nearly two years past. He was blind when I knew him, but he still received regular word from the East detailing your accomplishments. My friend served as an assistant of sorts to him, and he would read them out. He was very proud, I think, and often bemoaned being unable to help you."

The Dragon Queen's face was softer than he'd seen it since Ser Jorah had been presented to her, an air of regret and hope and longing playing across her pale features. "I didn't know…"

"I'm sorry," Jon replied, and he meant it truly, "He was a great man, you would have liked him. He was kind, always, regardless of who addressed him or how. Even the most vile men of the Watch treated him with respect. But he had a sense of humour about him as well, subtle for the most part yet wicked all the same. I remember him laughing when Sam made mention publically of another Brother's cowardice… It was Maester Aemon I went to when I needed advice. It was him who helped me understand that my pain was no better or worse than anyone else's and that honour can be the most difficult choice in a man's life…" He paused and blinked the memories away even as he attempted to gauge her reaction. Organizing his thoughts more carefully, and sensing no resistance from the visiting Queen, he pushed onward. "He wasn't the only member of your family to visit the Wall. Queen Alysanne Targaryen flew her dragon, Silverwing, there during the reign of Jaehaerys I. The Queenscrown and the Queensgate both are named for her, and she financed the construction of Deep Lake castle for the Night's Watch with her own jewels. Her likeness still stands in the main hall to this day. And Brynden Rivers, who arrived at the Wall along with Maester Aemon, was Lord Commander of the Night's Watch for a time."

Queen Daenerys was very nearly smiling now, but Jon very much doubted she was aware of it. "How is it you know so much about my family?"

"My youngest sister, Arya…" _Is dead_, Jon reminded himself. Arya had made that abundantly clear before rattling off the information he was now repeating to the Queen, "Targaryen women were heroines of hers. Queen Visenya and Rhaenyra the Half Year Queen and little Baela upon Moondancer during the Dance of Dragons… We used to reenact their great battles in the Godswood as children. Sansa even sewed us a Targaryen banner once, do you remember?"

Sansa's smile was fond. "Mother had to take it away in the end. Arya had taken to sleeping in it."

The laugh that slipped past the Dragon Queen's smile surprised him. She looked _young_.

Jon suspected he bore a similar expression. "Those games are some of my fondest memories…" he confessed.

"It certainly sounds like it." Queen Daenerys seemed almost wistful.

"Pardon the interruption, Your Grace."

Jon glanced up at the interruption, the moment of peaceful reminiscing falling away. "Lady Meera," he greeted, taking in the moss-green dress and willow wood pins taming her chestnut brown curls, "You look well."

"Sleeping in a bed will do that," the young woman smiled, "If it please you, may I present my father, Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch."

If Jon didn't know him to be a similar age to his father, he would have thought Lord Reed an old man. He stood a few inches shorter than the King himself, with stooped shoulders and slightly bowed legs. His hair may once have matched his daughter's, but it had long since faded to a lifeless grey and while he shared Meera's green eyes his own were clouded and milky. The king recalled Meera's comment about the price of visions, but seeing it in person was somehow different...

"Jon Snow," Lord Reed bowed in greeting as best he could while being supported by his daughter, "It is an honour, indeed."

"Lord Howland," Jon returned politely, "The honour is mine. You will forever have my gratitude, my father told us often how he owed you his life."

Next to him, Queen Daenerys was looking over newcomers with a curious gaze. The youth and softness were gone from her face, replaced by the now familiar closed-off expression once more.

"My Lord, may I present Queen Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen," Jon began, but Lord Reed's gentle voice cut him off.

"Yes," he smiled, "Daenerys, of Daenys the Dreamer. Do you dream, little queen?"

"Father…" Lady Meera warned in a low voice, but neither her father nor the Dragon Queen paid her any mind.

"I do."

They stared at each other for a moment, sharp violet into clouded green, until Lord Howland's eyes slid closed. "Hmm…" he hummed thoughtfully, "Then you know. Three there must be if dawn we shall see."

If possible, the Queen's face closed still tighter. "What do you know of threes?"

"Only what I dream, I'm afraid. Sand and snow and stone of fire. Chela of red and points of gold and dragons of coal..."

"And what does that mean?"

"Oh, I can't know that, Your Grace," Lord Reed's smile grew still wider, apparently unconcerned by the admission. His eyes slid open lazily, so clouded now that they appeared wholly white, "It is not my place to know, only to dream."

"I apologize for my father," Lady Meera cut in abruptly, gathering his slouching frame still more tightly in her arms, "The gift of foresight has always been strong in my family, but it does take a toll on mind and body both. If you'll excuse us. Your Grace, Your Grace…"

"You are your father's son, Jon Snow." Lord Reed's almost laughing voice floated back to them as he was led away into the crowd.


	22. THE MONSTERS AMONG US

**TRIGGER WARNINGS!  
**_**Sexual **_**_Assault  
_**_**PTSD / Panic Attack  
**_**_It gets a bit rapey up in here, kids. _**

* * *

**THE MONSTERS AMONG US**

Sansa IV

It was a clear night. The perpetual cloud cover had blown south on a gentle wind and stars shone proudly in the inky sky. Sansa wasn't sure if this was evidence that even winter had abandoned her family all together, or a sign of good things to come. She rather suspected the former, if history was anything to go by. The cold was still biting, even to her Northern skin, but the wind and snow of the past months had given way to a strange calm. It was as though the realm itself had paused to watch the meeting of worlds… Or perhaps they were simply caught in that moment of peace in the eye of the storm. The Lady of Winterfell sighed, her breath pluming before her and rising into the chill of the night.

The feast had finished by now, and from her place on the walkway overlooking the courtyard she watched as her drunken subjects and their guests alike wobbled out into the night. She would have to send a patrol out shortly to collect those who did not make it back to their beds. They couldn't very well leave them to freeze in their stupor.

Jon and the Targaryen Queen had both escaped the festivities some time ago. It was a similarity Sansa had not expected, but the two monarchs seemed to share a dislike for rowdy pomp and ceremony. Truthfully, she was proud of her brother. Once, she would have assumed that his conversation with the Dragon Queen was just mindless honesty and openness but now… Whether he had mimicked Littlefinger's approach knowingly or not, it had been beyond satisfying to see the honourable Jon Snow succeed where her mentor had failed.

It had occurred to her, as she had watched the foreign queen soften at her brother's words, that Jon may well be the first truly honest man Daenerys Stormborn had ever met.

"Your king is certainly a dull fellow. He seems to lack even the most basic of character."

The mocking voice behind her caused Sansa to turn slightly. "Lady Olenna," she nodded in greeting as the aging Lady came to stand by her side, "Jon is reserved, he's always been such, but I caution you not to mistake that for a lack of anything." She'd made that very mistake herself, once...

"Of course," the Queen of Thorns replied with a careless wave of her hand as she looked Sansa up and down, "Your loyalty is admirable."

"He is my brother and my King."

The elderly woman tutted, her expression somewhere between disappointed and disbelief. "And how angry are you that he was picked in your stead?"

The question was less of a surprise than the openness with which it was asked, but still Sansa took it in stride. "Less so each day."

Lady Olenna laughed sharply. "Honesty," she nodded, "How very Stark."

Sansa smiled politely. "I learned from the best"

"Did you? The girl I remember couldn't find two thoughts to rub together in that pretty head of hers."

"I'm a slow learner, it's true," Sansa admitted mildly, keeping the smile in place and refusing to take the bait, "But I learn."

Lady Olenna gave her another once over and nodded slightly. "So it would seem."

Accepting the truce those words offered, the Ladies of Winterfell and Highgarden both turned to look out over the frozen courtyard once more. Men hooted and hollered drunkenly below, snippets of song still floating into the night, but the women did not falter in their vigil. Even when the unmistakable screech of a dragon rang out in the distance, echoing across the snow, their silence continued. It was only when ghostly howls began twisting together with the evening breeze that Sansa spoke.

"I was saddened to hear of Margaery's fate," she said, keeping her eyes on the activity below, "And Ser Loras' as well. My affection for them was genuine."

Beside her, Lady Olenna sighed and for just a moment she seemed _old_. "As was mine…"

"You were a fool to trust Lord Baelish."

Lady Olenna looked at her sharply. "You're more the fool if you think there was trust involved," she replied at last, but her tone was different now. Just as biting, but less brash. Just as confident, but less _sure_.

Sansa revelled in the shift. "And yet, you gave him power over you," she pointed out calmly, fingering the simple necklace she'd chosen for the evening and watching as Lady Olenna's eyes tracked her movement, "You gave him knowledge of what you did together… You made certain he could move against you."

She couldn't make out the moment when the old matriarch understood what exactly she was implying — Lady Olenna played the game far too well for that — but the moment she accepted the realization was clear enough in her shifting posture.

"He had no reason to. He had achieved his goal."

Sansa chuckled darkly. "His goal is chaos. There's none more chaotic than Cersei Lannister."

"And yet he stands beside you…"

"I have something he wants."

Lady Olenna's eyes raked over her body and Sansa fought the urge to shift uncomfortably under the scrutiny. These were the tools she had been given, and she refused to be shamed for using them by a woman who had surely done the same thing — and more — in her youth. Of course, her tools had been rather dulled since Ramsay —

"And you believe that gives you the power?" the older woman asked at last, her expression shrewd even in the darkness.

Sansa had never been so grateful for a patronizing tone in all her life. She squared her shoulders just a fraction and forced Ramsay to the darkest corner of her mind (while ignoring the nagging little voice that said he probably liked it there.) "For the time being."

The Lady of Highgarden huffed an almost-laugh. "Then we shall be fools together," she decided as she tugged her wimple tighter around her ears, "I don't know how you stand this wretched weather."

"Perhaps you should retire for the evening, My Lady," Sansa suggested politely, "I'd never ask you to brave winter's chill on my account."

Lady Olenna huffed again, but took the suggestion all the same as she stepped away from the railing. "Tell me, Lady Sansa," she asked ask she picked her way across the frozen walkway and back toward the warmth of the castle, "Were you ever as stupid as you appeared?"

"Yes."

_I'm a stupid little girl with stupid dreams who never learns and I'm a terrible liar, so I should always tell the truth_.

It had been the truth once, a lie when she'd said, and nothing but a memory now. She would never be that empty-headed child again.

"Jon Sn'w o'House Stark."

A smaller figure had taken Lady Olenna's place by the castle door during her musings. Tyrion Lannister had appeared more rough around the edges when she'd first seen him standing at the Dragon Queen's side — bearded and lined, his mismatched eyes missing some of the life that had been present in King's Landing and grey just beginning to streak his blond hair — but the man she had once called her husband looked even worse now. He was very clearly drunk, clinging firmly to a glass of wine in one hand and the castle wall in their other as though they were the only two things keeping him upright. His clothing was rumpled, his hair a mess, and wine (or worse) stained the front of his doublet. His unfocused gaze blinked up at her and his teeth were barred in a grim smile.

"Lord Tyrion," Sansa greeted calmly, "You look quite unwell."

"Wine, m'dear wife." He waved his glass before downing the contents and slumping heavily against the wall.

"Former wife," Sansa corrected, though not unkindly, as she watched him struggle to regain his footing.

"Mmm," Tyrion agreed, still clinging to the stone beside him, "Lef' me t'lions…"

"I did," the Lady of Winterfell acknowledged, "And for that I apologize. A better woman would have stayed by your side."

Tyrion snorted. "Better b'stupider." He managed, finally, to gain some stability and searched out her face with a frown, "You did'in answer m'question."

Sansa shook her head, the action almost fond. "Jon is a Stark, truly, in all but name."

"T'you too?"

Once she would have been insulted at the implication, even if she knew it was true. Now, though, the answer came so easily that the memory had lost its sting. "Yes."

Lord Tyrion gave her a sloppy smile. "Good." He brought his glass clumsily to his lips and frowned in disappointment when he found it empty. A careless backhand sent the goblet flying before he blinked up at his former wife once more. "Y'bel'eve 'n monsters, hn?"

Sansa found that she couldn't be sure just what he meant by that in his current condition, but she supposed the answer would be the same regardless. "I do. Three of them just landed on our shores."

Drunk though he may be, Lord Tyrion did not disagree.

* * *

She took it upon herself to help Lord Tyrion to bed, sometime later, after his legs folded underneath him mid-ramble. There was little point in dragging him all the way to the Dragon Queen's camp, so she led him instead to the spare rooms they had prepared on principle for the visiting monarch. Truthfully, led was a rather strong word. In reality, she supported most of the dwarf's weight as the wine dragged him under. By the time she deposited him on the furs covering the bed and ensured the fire was well stocked, she was fully confident that he was well and truly lost to the alcohol. It was, therefore, a surprise when his voice interrupted her leaving.

"Sa'sa…?"

She paused in the doorway and looked back at the prone figure. Behind the wine and the exhaustion, he sounded so very _sad_.

"M'brover's dead..."

_Yes, he was_… She remembered the raven which had arrived some days prior bearing confirmation of Littlefinger's suspensions and suggestions of Jaime Lannister's death. The letter had revealed the first cracks in Jon's resolve that they could reach a peaceful alliance with the Dragon Queen. Sansa, however, had felt unexpected relief. The action was reckless and bold and emotional and so very much _not_ the actions of a woman who played a long game. And those who did not play the game often missed their opponents' moves.

It was the audible hitch in Tyrion's breathing which brought her back to the moment at hand, and despite everything sympathy brought a frown to her face. "I know. I'm sorry."

She left him to his grief after that, bolting the door to provide him with the solitude she had so craved after the falsehood of Bran and Rickon's death and then the truth of Robb and Mother's had reached her. It was just as well, it turned out, for she found Lord Baelish loitering down the hall.

"My Lord," she greeted, "One could be mistaken for believing you're following me."

Littlefinger smiled mildly and offered her his arm, but did not rebuke the statement. "And you, leaving a visiting Lord's chambers in the night. How tongues could wag."

"It would hardly send the right message to our honoured guest if her Hand was found frozen in his own sick come morning." She accepted his arm and mentor and student strolled deeper into the castle.

"And what is the right message, I wonder?" Baelish mused.

Sansa sighed. "Peace and cooperation. Strength without threat. Common ground and respect."

"Your words, or the King's?"

"A bit of both."

Baelish hummed thoughtfully. "Your brother is foolishly optimistic."

At that, Sansa laughed. "I can't say I've ever heard Jon described as optimistic before," she offered by way of explanation as she caught the questioning glint in Littlefinger's eyes, dancing around the implication with ease.

"She will look to procure allies from within the North."

"Undoubtedly."

"Have you given any further thought to my suggestion? Moving to secure the allegiance of those to which she will be favourably inclined…"

"Inclined to marry, you mean."

"Indeed. A woman cannot rule alone. Daenerys Targaryen knows this, as do you."

_As do you_… Sansa slowed their pace as suspicion caused their conversation to dance around her mind. She examined each word spoken and all those left unsaid looking for a threat, a hint, a _mistake_… "I do not rule the North."

"No," Baelish agreed, "You do not."

"You sold me once," the Lady of Winterfell kept her voice even through force of will alone, "You will not do so again."

"Never. It is I who would sell myself to you." Littlefinger slowed them to a halt and turned to face her, taking her hands in his own, "A married woman wields far more power than a twice-married singlewoman and with your alterations you'll be hard pressed to find a suitor of equal standing. I have no great need for an heir…"

_Alterations_? Sansa went cold. Her lungs froze along with the rest of her as fury surged through her, whiting out anything further Littlefinger had to say.

How _dare _he? What Ramsay had done to her… The knives and fists and pounding cock, the bites and bruises and pooling blood, the foul poison downed like water to keep him _out_ of her… Sansa drew in a shuddering breath and focused on following that with another as sound rushed back to her once more.

"... we must present a united front. Securing the relationship between the North and the Vale — "

"Alterations?"

Littlefinger fell silent immediately. Perhaps he realized his error. More likely, he recognized an opportunity.

Sansa found she didn't care either way, and wrenched her hands free from his grasp, "He _flayed_ me. He cut and peeled and sliced… I drank Moon Tea by the barrel, Maester Wolkan saw it smuggled to me, and when I bleed now I know not if it is moon blood or the Moon Tea or the slices up inside me. I go dry for moons only to bleed for many after that without stopping — "

"Lady Sansa, I meant no offense…"

"Shut up," her words were all wolf, snarled and cold, "I'll not hear it. You sold me to them and you saw me taken apart. You _knew_ — "

"I've told you, I didn't kn — "

"But that's what you do, isn't it?" She couldn't stop. The words poured from her as freely as her blood ever did and if they could cut half as well as the blade that carved her, well, more the better, "That's how you love. You break the object of your affection down, you make them _need_ you. Because that's what we are to you, objects. Pretty little toys to stay your ego and insecurity. You did it to my mother, and Aunt Lysa, and Robin and me…"

"What did your cousin tell you?"

"Nothing I hadn't worked out for myself. You've been poisoning him all his life."

"His fits began without my interference — "

He would not explain. She would not _let _him explain. Not now. "And they continued because of it. He'll be of age soon, marrying him would do more to '_secure the Vale_' than your proposal…"

"Sansa…"

"But, of course, you'll have him killed before that happens. Or, rather, he'll die suddenly — a fit, I expect." She laughed, the sound as sharp as shattered ice. The words kept on pouring. "Only, you do care for him. Will you be able to see it done? You must, if you're to maintain your position — "

Baelish stepped forward, all of his usual ease replaced by something far sharper as he took her by the forearms. "You're upset, My Lady," his voice was soft, yet edged, and his eyes seemed to darken the closer he leaned to her, "I overestimated your healing, it seems. You have such strength I forget, sometimes, that you're but a woman."

Sansa raised her palms to his chest, holding him back with more force than she had needed those months ago in the Godswood. "There were rumours at Court," she forced a pleasant tone that didn't quite succeed in masking the fury still coursing through her, "Rumours that Joffrey was particularly fond of. That Aunt Lysa wouldn't give her Lord husband a son, nor a daughter, nor anything at all, but was all too happy to spread her legs — "

Her back struck the wall with enough force to be painful as Littlefinger stepped even closer, his lips brushing against her cheek as he moved the hands pining her in place up and down her forearms. "Enough of that," he whispered, his breath hot on her skin, "You should rest. We'll speak again when you're feeling better." He kissed her lips slowly, lingering on her flesh as he stared into her eyes.

Sansa forced herself to stare back, forced herself to think, to _breathe_, to clench her teeth together to keep from biting, to keep her hands steady, to brace her knee against his groin, to _breathe_…

The stone wall cut into her elbows as she held him back.

She could feel cold seeping through the back of her dress.

Her chest was so tight it hurt…

_Breathe, breathe, breathe!_

His hand slid from her arm. Fingers traced down the side of her breast and traversed her stomach, continuing downward...

_Stop. Stop, stop, stop!_

The touch hovered just above her cunt.

She could feel his smile as his lips left hers…

_Breathe, breathe, breathe._

"Sleep well, My Lady."

Another peck, and he was gone.

Sansa made it back to her chamber, barely, but couldn't reach the chamber pot before terror had her retching.

_Breathe, breath, brea — oh Gods..._

She curled in on herself. Toppled from her hands and knees and pulled her knees to her chest like a child. Smelled bile and tears and blood and seed. Felt hands and lips and blades and cocks. Heard her own keening whimpers and Littlefinger's whispers and Ramsay's laugh and somewhere behind all of it Joffrey's order…

_Ser Ilyn, bring me his head._

She was home, but she wasn't. She never would be. She just wanted to go _home. _

_Tears aren't a woman's only weapon. The best one's between your legs. Learn how to use it._

_I have something he wants._

_And you believe that gives you the power?_

_There's no justice in the world, not unless we make it._

_You've been running all your life… Stop running._

_My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel._

She breathed.

Her siblings didn't sleep either. She'd felt Arya's shadow haunting the castle at night, seen papers strewn across Jon's desk bearing a pillow's creases, and woke breathless and painful and _frightened_ in her parents' bed. They were all broken down. They were all melted down...

_To steel._

She breathed again.

They had been forged anew. Tempered in blood. They were as sharp as they were strong, and they were _strong_.

She stood, tall and proud, heedless of the vomit staining her front or the tears caked to swollen eyes or her running nose or the state of her hair. They were strong. _She was strong_.

Her clothes fell away one piece at a time. The fur-lined cloak. The clasps and fastenings. The gown itself. The hose. The shift… Until she stood naked as a newborn babe in the centre of the room. She'd allowed no one to see her uncovered flesh since she'd fled from Ramsay's clutches, hardly daring to look at it herself as she bathed or ensured a shift and hose were in place before servants entered to dress her. Now, as winter's chill nipped at unguarded flesh, she stepped over her discarded clothing toward the looking glass in the corner.

She had oft been called pretty, beautiful even, by men and women alike and she was not so humble that she disagreed with them. Her face had retained its beauty through everything — needed as it was for men's ambitions — and her figure was curved and womanly behind the safety of cloth and finery, but her flesh…

Raised scars marred her skin from her breasts to her knees. Some were the remnants of short cuts that had been meant to startle and amuse, while others told the story of long and twisting and cuts made so _so_ slowly when he'd desired to spill his seed. Where once a dusting of red hair had separated her thighs was now sinewy and stretched, discoloured and lumpy. She ghosted a hand over the damaged flesh and felt nothing, only the texture of poor quality leather beneath her fingers…

_The best one's between your legs…_

With a scream, Sansa lashed out. The contents of her desk when flying, furs were thrown for her parent's bed, jewels and finery ricocheted off the walls… She raged until she could scarcely stand, until the room more closely resembled a battlefield than the chamber of the Lady of Winterfell and her body was shaking from excursion. Only then did she stop, facing the looking glass once more — the only thing in the room she had left untouched in her fury — and _breathed._

Her wash basin had been overturned, but it had soaked a shift when it spilled which she used to wipe away any remnant of tears. Her combs were lost among the chaos, but her fingers tugged her hair back under control and tied it in a braid at the nape of her neck. Her clothes were strewn about everywhere, but when she stepped out into the hall some minutes later she was dressed in a shapeless black dress and cloak with the hood drawn.

Ladies never run, her Septa had told her many a time, they hurry.

Sansa marched.

Petyr Baelish answered her knock at his chamber door clad only in his smallclothes and mused with sleep. "Lady San — "

"I accept your proposal, Lord Baelish. We will discuss specifics when you are more presentable."

She left him blinking after her, still trapped in the stupor of sleep.

Jon would ask questions, she knew. He'd press with those earnest eyes of his and the safety he exuded from his very being, and she would be unable to deny herself his comfort...

Sansa made her way to the forge, instead.

Her sister was awake, as she knew she would be, tucked away in a dimly lit corner of the sleeping area assigned to blacksmiths and their apprentices. The Baratheon bastard sat next to her, a leather-bound book spread between them as they conversed softly. Both looked up at her arrival.

"Gendry," Arya prompted, her eyes still fixed on her sister as the elder Stark stepped around the sleeping men in her approach.

" 'Course," the young man nodded, snapping the book shut and gathering up his bedroll to give them space.

"What happened?"

Sansa shook her head once and drew herself up to her full height. "I wish to learn to defend myself."

Arya blinked once and gave a sharp nod. "Let's begin."

* * *

**AN:**** _Hello everyone. As you guys have probably noticed, I'm not really into Author's Notes but I wanted to address a couple things in this chapter. _**

**_Firstly, Consent is vital. There is NEVER a reason/excuse/right to touch anyone in any way without their express permission and that permission can be revoked at any time._**

**_Secondly, and this relates to this chapter, I am in no way implying that there is a specific way to be a "Strong Female Character." There seems to be this idea that to have your female characters be strong, they must be fighters, or tough, or cold, or controlled... Essentially, to be a "Strong Female Character" they must act like a man. This, frankly, is bullshit. Yes, Sansa goes to Arya to learn to protect herself in this chapter. No, that doesn't mean that she's finally becoming "Strong" because of that choice. _**

**_Sansa is not going to become a warrior, that's not her. And she doesn't have to. She is strong in her way._**

**_Sansa doesn't have to fight to be strong._**

**_Arya's physicality doesn't make her less of a woman._**

**_Daenerys' unapologetic confidence doesn't make her a bitch._**

**_Brienne's appearance doesn't mean she can't be vulnerable._**

**_Cersei's emotions don't make her weak._**

**_Meera's nurturing nature doesn't make her any less capable._**

**_And so on and so forth..._**

**_So, let's forget about "strong female characters" and write about women, girls, trans-women, non-binary folks and everyone in between. Strength comes in so many different forms!_**

**_That's all folks. I'll get off my soapbox now. I hope you enjoyed the chapter!_**

**_Prickly _**


	23. THE RED SEA

**THE RED SEA**

Jaime IV

Jaime was flying. Well, he was falling, really, but he wagered it felt exactly the same. Wind in your hair. Sun in your eyes. So fast your entire body tingled, and all those other pretty words their Septa used. But Septa Saranella would never fly or fall (not unless she tripped on her teats, as Cersei often said she would) because she was _boring_. And old. Hence the teats.

He was still snickering at the thought when he hit the water.

Cersei was floating by the shore when he surfaced, her clothes folded neatly next to his own haphazard pile further up the beach. Both piles were breeches. They'd _both_ been Jaime today.

"What are you laughing at?" She hadn't opened her eyes, still floating in the gentle waves from his splash while the sunlight turned her pale skin all golden.

Just like their hair was, he noted, golden lions like everyone said. His was plastered to his head by seawater, while her's floated around her face like a crown. Jaime fought the urge to tug at it. "Septa Saranella's teats," he said instead.

His sister cracked an eye open at that, giving him a disapproving look as he paddled over to her. Jaime didn't know how she _did_ that with just one eye, but he ignored her anyway. "Come jump with me," he suggested as he reached her.

Cersei sputtered as his approach cascaded waves over her face and turned over so she was treading water facing him with a frown. "I'm not climbing the cliffs naked."

"Put your clothes on then!"

"They'd get _wet_, Jaime."

That was true enough, he supposed. He hadn't even considered that. Cersei was much smarter than him at spotting problems. It was because he was a _boy_, she told him often, it took no smarts to swing a sword. And that was also true. Jaime didn't think at all when he trained with the Master at Arms, he just _moved_. It was easy. They had even allowed him to move to a steel training blade on his sixth nameday! All the other boys were still using wooden swords, and they'd seen seven namedays now! Cersei had been angry about it (the steel blade was too heavy for her so she couldn't play at swords dressed as him anymore) but his father had smiled at him so it had been worth it. Even the Dornish prince had been impressed!

"Do you think Prince Oberyn and his sister will come visit again?"

"I doubt it." Cersei had made her way back to the rocky shore and settled on a sun-soaked boulder to wring out her curls, "Their visit was Mother's doing, Father has far better planned for us than _Dornishmen_."

"But I liked Oberyn," Jaime whined.

"Of course you did, he was the only one stupid enough to jump off the cliffs with you."

Jaime frowned. Stupid. That's what everyone thought. Ever since Maester Volarik told his father about his reading… But he wasn't _all_ stupid. He knew the dumb old maester had only told his father to punish him for breaking his hand when he'd put it on his cock. Volarik had told him it was alright, but Jaime knew it wasn't. Mother had been so angry when she found out Cersei touched his cock, and that was _Cersei_… "I'm not stupid."

"Then why are you on fire, stupid?"

Jaime blinked. A wave crashed against his back. "What?"

Cersei was looking at him oddly. "I said, come touch me." She was rubbing between her thighs, he noticed. She said it felt good, and he _knew _it felt good when she touched him, but…

"Mother said we can't anymore."

"Mother's dead, stupid. The monster killed her."

Jaime didn't like to think about that. He missed Mother, but Cersei and Father didn't like it when he said so, so he protected the baby instead. "He didn't — "

"Then why are you on fire, stupid?"

Another wave crashed against him, this one large enough to break over his head and force him underwater briefly. "I'm not on fire!" he protested when he surfaced, "And I'm _not_ stupid!"

"What are you talking about?" Cersei demanded, "I told you to come touch me. _Someone _has to until I get my beautiful silver prince."

Jaime was pitched forward by the force of another incoming wave, and bubbles blinded him as he fought his way back to the surface once more. His back burned with the strength of the impact as he regained his breath and looked around. Cersei had spread her legs, her child's cunt glinting in the sunlight, but her eyes flashed red as flames… "You said the picture was King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne," he spluttered before the ocean swallowed him once more.

His sister's laughter floated around him as he kicked desperately toward the sunlight. His lungs burned. His back burned. His right hand crumbled into golden dust that swirled away on the currents…

"Then why are you on fire, stupid?"

Jaime woke gasping for breath.

He wasn't on fire — though it took him an embarrassingly long and frantic moment to assure himself of that fact — and he wasn't drowning either. He was just the same pathetic, crippled knight who had succumbed to the unnatural sleep brought on by milk of the poppy sometime the day before. At least, he assumed it had been the day before. He'd been unable to keep track of the days beyond daylight and night since he'd woken, screaming in pain, under the blade of Horn Hill's maester.

He shifted slightly, drawing one knee up toward his chest to ease some of the pressure on his ribs while hissing in pain. Everything hurt. Worse than that, everything _pulled_ like his skin had shrunk and no longer fit his body. He hadn't actually _seen_ the damage yet, but he could guess well enough. He had no hair to speak of, or at least none on his head nor his arms, and likely nowhere else either. His face was tight. And painful, of course, but the tight was worse. It felt as though he was wearing a mask, or perhaps someone else's face, frozen and unable to emote. His back felt much the same, as though his armour had melted into his very flesh and left him stiff and rigid. It forced him to lie on his front, the pain unbearable otherwise, and as such he felt every bump and jostle of the carriage in his ribs and stomach.

He dragged his thoughts away from anything pertaining to his gut before they could go any further. Between the milk of the poppy and the rough ride he was nauseous more often than not, and he had learned the hard way how painful vomiting in his condition was.

Working his left arm under him — and pointedly refusing to look at either that hand or, Gods forbid, his _other_ one — Jaime eased himself up on his forearm and looked around. The carriage smelled of decaying flesh, which he declined to acknowledge as his own, but even still the unmistakable scent of shit heralded their approach to King's Landing. Gods, he'd have to explain what happened to Cersei…

"You should rest, Ser Jaime."

Jaime would have jumped out of his skin were it not tighter than one of Cersei's corsets. As it was, the startled movement caused a quickly aborted grunt of pain to rise in his throat as he searched for the speaker with damp eyes. Randyl Tarly. Of _fucking_ course. "As should you, My Lord."

And really, he should. The Reacher Lord was less swollen than the last fuzzy memories Jaime had of him, but his face was still littered with oozing blisters which formed the shape of his helmet and his heavily splinted legs appeared utterly useless. His eyes were glassy and unfocused from the milk of the poppy, but his pallor seemed better than before. Jaime wasn't sure if that pleased him or not, but his own mind was still far too cloudy to give it much thought. Instead, he focused on forcing his body into an upright position despite his carriage-mate's continued protests. The procedure took far longer than he would have liked, pain causing his vision to white out periodically and his smoke-scarred lungs fighting for breath with every laboured movement. By the time he finally slumped his shoulder against the carriage window, nausea threatened to overwhelm him. Still, he'd done it. Cersei would not find him prone on the floor in a mindless stupor.

Palming the window cover open, Jaime allowed the chilled winter air to clear the cobwebs from his mind. The smell of shit did nothing to help settle his stomach, but he'd been in King's Landing for enough of his life that it did nothing to worsen it either. Randyl Tarly didn't seem to share his constitution, if his pinched expression was any indication. "Breath through your mouth. It'll help with the smell." If Tarly started vomiting, he would surely follow suit…

Fortunately, the older man was a good soldier through and through and parted his lips obediently. Jaime nearly laughed, but ended up closing his stinging eyes and resting his head carefully against the open window instead. If he still had hair, it would have been blowing in the wind… If…

The sharp tugging at his scalp was growing more than bothersome, in fact it was properly painful now! "Ow!" he complained, trying to wiggle away from the offending fingers to no avail, "Cersei, _ow_!"

"Stop complaining, you sound like a _girl_." His sister chastised him as she tied the final braid up with a piece of silk and arranged it among the others piled atop his head. Her movements were still far from gentle, but at least it didn't seem that he would lose any more hair to her crusade. "Now, tell me what's expected of you?"

"Do not speak unless spoken to. Sit, smile and look pretty. And don't eat like a pig."

"Precisely." Cersei appeared before him, dressed in his leathers and breeches with her own golden curls loose down her back.

They would need to get a cut, Jaime mused as he eyed the length. He would have to convince her…

"I'll not have you fucking this up," his twin continued, "Prince Rhaegar hasn't said two words to me since he and his father arrived, but he _will_ speak with you _about_ me. Stand up."

Jaime obeyed mindlessly, feet sloshing in the ankle deep water as he stood. "They've scarcely been here a day," he pointed out, wincing as the corset he was wearing tightened around his chest, "Surely, Father — "

"_Father_ intends for me to be Queen," Cersei spoke over him as she lashed the laces still more tightly, "And I will be. My sons will be golden dragons and _kings_."

"Dragons… are dead," Jaime choked out, already regretting letting his sister talk him into this deception, "Tyrion says… last dragon died… hundred years ago."

A particularly violent tug finished cinching up the corset. "The little monster still waddles like a drunken babe, what does he know?"

"He… read it." And really, this was ridiculous! How did women _wear_ these things? "Reads… better than… I do."

Cersei rolled her eyes. "The stable boys read better than you do, stupid."

The water lapped against his knees. "I'm not stu — "

" — upid? If you think I will allow this farce to stand, then you've lost whatever shreds of faculties you had left to you. I will not have it!" Tywin Lannister was seething. Standing to full height in Harrenhal's burned out throne room, he radiated a fury the likes of which Jaime had not seen in him since the day the maester had informed him that Tyrion would live at least into childhood.

This wasn't the plan.

"You think to command your king, _My Lord_?" The threat was obvious, as was the king's joy in levelling it. Jaime thought Aerys suited this half melted shell of a throne far more than his seat in King's Landing. He imagined it bore a striking resemblance to the content of his head.

"I. Will. Not. Have it!"

Jaime couldn't breathe. Even standing in the shadows by his sister's side, even as their fingers brushed against each other and his body longed for more, even with Prince Rhaegar's expression of resigned disappointment visible from his position opposite them… He couldn't breathe.

This wasn't the plan!

He should be celebrating, elated at his appointment to the most elite of ranks, but joy had turned sour almost before he tasted it. The white cloak hung heavy on his shoulders and forced the air from his lungs. The water burned red and gold, warm against his waist. Cersei's things were being packed hurriedly by loyal Lannister servants…

This _was not_ the plan…

"Oathbreaker."

Jaime looked up sharply. King Aerys was gone, his father and sister too, and Prince Rhaegar stood facing the empty throne. The young knight could feel his white cloak beginning to grow heavy as the red water soaked it through.

"That's what they call you, isn't it?" the prince continued, pale fingers trailing across the water's surface and leaving delicate ripples in their wake, "Oathbreaker. Kingslayer. A man without honour."

"What…?"

Rhaegar didn't turn around and instead waded a few steps nearer to the throne his father had occupied just moments before. "In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave," his mild voice echoed around the room like whispers at sea, "In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women… Did you not swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your captains, your liege lord, and your king, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be? Did you not swear it, Oathbreaker?"

"I _did_ protect the innocent! Half a million of them!" Jaime was cold all over and his cloak tugged at his throat, "He was going to _burn them_, Your Grace, all of King's Landing…"

"And yet, you failed."

A scream echoed through the hall. It was a woman's scream, pained and frightened, an involuntary noise rather than a cry for help. The type of scream that still haunted his dreams after all these years…

_In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women_…

The _Queen_…

"I tried — "

"You failed," the son repeated. He turned, then, and his ethereal face was lit with swirls of red and gold from the water below as he lowered himself onto the throne. A crown, white as his hair, flickered atop his head. The ghostly crown of a king-who-never-was… "You failed, Jaime Lannister, and now a monster stalks our shores."

Jaime shook his head. The water surged against his waist like a sea of blood and fire… Or fire and blood… He was so _cold_. "I don't understand…"

"No," Rhaegar agreed calmly, "You don't."

She screamed again, then again and again and again and again —

Jaime jammed his fingers in his ears, fighting the urge to scream along with her. His knees buckled, the water crawled up his chest, his cloak wrapped around him tightly, and still Rhaella screamed. The sound was everywhere, and the newly named Kingsguard cast his gaze in every direction, searching for her. The king was raping her. He was _killing_ her! But the room was empty save for her failed protector and her son.

"Jaime," there were tears on the prince's cheeks, "Save her."

Rhaella's screams turned to whimpers and pleas and choked sobs. The sounds of a woman trying to avoid attention. The sounds of a woman who had learned long ago that no one would save her. It was worse than the screams. So much worse.

"You're hurting me."

Jaime flinched as his queen's voice seeped through the door.

Ser Jonothor Darry frowned at his young guard partner's reaction. "Fix your cloak, Ser."

His white cloak had coiled around his legs, wrapped tightly around his chest and was floating tauntingly about his arms. The water had turned it so red that it could be mistaken for black, tarnished and soiled. Jaime tugged at it valiantly, but the fabric would not budge.

"You're _hurting me_!"

_Save her_… Rhaegar's voice echoed in his head.

"We are sworn to protect her, as well," he reminded the older knight.

"We are," Darry conceded, "But not from him."

_You failed, Jaime Lannister, and now a monster stalks our shores._

Confusion warred with frustration and shame as he tried to _understand_. He failed, and a monster…? Oh. _Oh._ That innocent babe born of cruelty and madness. That fire-eyed girl on dragonback… Her father's daughter.

"No." Jaime surged forward, sword in hand as his cloak floated away. Ser Jonothor moved to intercept him, but Jaime cut him down. The other Kingsguard's blood seemed to glow as it swirled around him, somehow redder than the water's flames. He would not fail. The monster would not come. He would not burn again. Waves cascaded around him as he broke the door down, watching it sink out of sight in his peripheral vision as he charged to his queen's aid —

Laughter.

Jaime froze, sword at the ready, waves rocking him in place. Rhaella was laughing. She was stretched out on the bed, white and lavender and beautiful and smiling and alone and _laughing at him_.

"Your Grace…?"

"You will always burn, Jaime Lannister." She smiled, all teeth and glee, and swept an arm through the water.

Waves rose up at her call and pushed, pushed, pushed him from the room. Red and gold and black and blood, swirling and pulsing and crushing… Jaime began to swim, sword still in hand. The water soaked his hair, gold to red. His armour grew heavier with every stroke —

"Burn them all!"

The Iron Throne was an island before him and Aerys stood atop it, barefoot and manic, balancing on the blades.

"Burn them all, little cub, burn them all!"

He didn't understand. He was the stupidest Lannister after all, he _couldn't_ understand. But he didn't need to. It took no smarts to swing a sword… Jaime swam toward him, hatred urging him on. His sword broke the surface, red with Darry's blood, and he lunged.

Aerys watched the sword piece his chest and _grinned_. "Wrong." He seized Jaime's wrist and fell backward off the throne, dragging them both into the depths.

Jaime fought and punched and kicked. He pulled his sword free with his left hand and slashed at the dead king, but to no avail. The corpse's grip remained firm, those claw-like nails cutting into yet unblemished flesh while scaled fingers left bruises with their force. He couldn't breathe. He was going to die. The water flickered red and gold, like flames. He was going to burn. Panic set in and technique fled. He clawed and scratched, bit and flailed and finally, _finally_, he was free. When he resurfaced at last, he was in a cavernous bathhouse and his skin was caked with mud and blood and piss and sick. There was a naked wench with straw-like hair before him and so, so, so much _pain_, but the water was clear…

A particularly sudden bump jarred him back into wakefulness. Water rushed in his ears. Water. The Mud Gate.

Jaime blinked. He was almost home. But was it home? Had it ever been?

Footsteps drifted through his consciousness, and the former Kingsguard forced himself to think. Metal on metal in time with their steps. Soldiers. Rolling his head to the side, he caught sight of men in battered armour bearing the rooster of House Swyft, the burning tree of House Marbrand, the green and gold of House Hayford, the huntsman of House Tarly… Survivors, however few. The Tarlys' maester walked with them, and Jaime pulled himself back out of sight. The carriage would need to be moved to a barge to cross the Blackwater Rush, he knew, and the vial of milk of the poppy in the maester's hand glinted menacingly. He closed his eyes and prayed the man would think him already asleep.

His deception was a success. While Lord Tarly was drugged heavily, the maester deemed him able to make the rest of the journey without another dose. Jaime smiled to himself, revelling in the tiny victory. His pleasure was short lived, however, for the moment they were free of the docks the rocking of the barge had bile rising in his throat. His mouth watered, his guts twisted and his body _burned_. His distress keened out of him without his consent as he clamped his mouth closed desperately. He held it together until Randyl Tarly, now semi-conscious and slumped forward, vomited without reservation.

In the end, Jaime Lannister was presented to his queen reeking of death, covered in his own sick and nearly blind from pain.

* * *

It was three days before Cersei came to see him.

He was well cared for in the interim, of course, despite his sister's absence. Qyburn, who hummed and tutted his way over his mangled flesh, had obviously been tasked with managing his recovery and did so with his usual enthusiasm. Jaime refused all offers of milk of the poppy, but acquiesced to poppy wine in his bid to stay conscious. He would be there when Cersei came, if not fully in body then certainly in mind.

For three days and three nights he waited, alone in his pain and doubt and _fear_.

Qyburn's prognosis was grim, but nothing he had not suspected. His armour, melted by dragonfire, had ravaged his back and shoulders. The pain would pass, the disgraced maester had assured him one particularly awful night when the pain had his eyes rolling and he couldn't get a breath and tears stained his cheeks, but the stiffness and too-tight skin would be his lifelong companions. The bones in his right foot and ankle had been crushed by his flailing mount, ribs had cracked when he'd been thrown, and the shoulder of his right arm torn out of place. Not that the shoulder _mattered_. Not anymore. His golden hand had melted in the heat, the molten metal running the length of what remained of his former sword arm and cooking the flesh away. Jaime remembered that first moment of agonizing consciousness back in Horn Hill as the blackened limb was cut away, and the image of charred bones where his arm should have been as he tried to fight off the men holding him in place was forever burned into his memory. It was gone. The shoulder. The arm. Everything. Just, gone.

His left arm had been spared the molten gold and broken bones, but little else. The skin was puckered and red and swollen, and his fingers… He had broken memories of rolling among the flames, clawing at his armour in desperation, an act which had apparently burned the tips of his fingers away. The hand was still heavily bandaged, with Qyburn having decided that the skin was still too damaged for him to attempt to sew it back over the exposed bones, but Jaime had seen them once and that had been enough. He would regain the use of what remained of his fingers, he'd been assured, but it didn't matter.

The youngest Kingsguard in history. The golden lion. The great Jaime Lannister… And not a hand left to speak off.

_Death is so final whereas life… Life is so full of possibilities._

His brother had never been so wrong.

He was drifting at the edge of consciousness where the pain was almost bearable when Cersei entered, draped in Lannister crimson and crowned in gold. _Like flames_, his mind offered unhelpfully. Jaime ignored it. "Cersei…" She had come alone, and Jaime felt frayed and battered hope stir in his chest as she closed the door behind her. _Perhaps_…

"What happened?"

The hope flickered slightly, but Jaime refused to let it go. "Dragons," he replied, peering up at his sister's face, "The Targaryen girl was waiting for us. She knew… She has three grown dragons, Cersei…"

She had closed the distance between them as he spoke and reached out to brush her fingers over his hairless scalp. "How do they fight?"

Jaime leaned into the touch as it explored his face and neck, the pain more than worth it to feel whole again. "They burn things…"

Cersei glared, her touch growing rougher and drawing a pained gasp from her brother. "Obviously," she looked him up and down and drew back her hand, wiping it on a cloth Qyburn had left by his bedside, "How does she control them? Do they obey orders? Are they soldiers or beasts?"

"I…" The direction of the conversation and the sudden lack of the contact he'd so craved was throwing Jaime off balance, "She was riding the largest. They seemed under control…"

"And her ground forces? Were they caught in the fire as well?"

"There was none, just the reserve forces from Highgarden…"

Cersei stilled and her face went carefully blank. "None," she repeated, "You mean to tell me that the _entire Lannister army_ lost to a little girl and three dragons!"

"Half — "

"Half!?" The queen interrupted loudly. She stooped to his level, emerald eyes flashing, and Jaime could smell wine on her breath, "I commanded you to take that castle. I commanded you to take their gold! And you bring _half my army_!?"

He couldn't do this. She was moving too fast. He couldn't keep up. He didn't understand. And _Gods,_ it hurt… Jaime's eyes slid closed of their own accord. His ears were ringing. His hands — _hand_ — was shaking. Tears prickled at his eyelids and his stomach twisted and rolled… He wanted his sister, he wanted his brother, he wanted his _mother_. He wanted everything to stop, stop, _stop! _He couldn't… He just couldn't.. But he had too. "The Riverlands need more time if they hope to maintain stability." An answer, nothing more.

"The Riverlands need more time?" Cersei demanded, her voice — by contrast — rising with every word, "You think I care what the Riverlands need? You think I want some _common whore_ ruling my _kingdom_!"

"Lady Kitty's parents were both of noble birth."

His sister recoiled as though he'd struck her. "You _like_ her."

"I respect her."

"Respect," Cersei laughed coldly, "Did you fuck her?"

"No."

"Did you want to?"

"No."

The palm that collided with his burned face sent pain spasming through Jaime's entire body and the world faded in and out around him, yet the sensations felt far away. Everything felt far away.

"The Tarly bitch can have you."

"No."

"No? And what reason could I possibly have for keeping _you_?"

"Loyalty."

"Loyalty didn't trouble you when you made your deal with father."

_I'll leave the Kingsguard, I'll take my place as your son and heir if you let Tyrion live…_

"How do you — ?"

"You betrayed me. You left me and came back maimed and soft. You would have left me again for that spiteful little creature. You let him go and our father died for it. You come back now looking like a lumpy, bloody shit and you want to talk about _loyalty_!?"

The shaking had reached his lungs now, and Jaime couldn't breathe. Foggy darkness pressed in on him from all sides. He just wanted it to _stop_.

"Why shouldn't I marry you off? Why should I secure the Tarlys' allegiance and see to it that I have heirs named Lannister? You and Father and Robert and all the smug _cocks_ who smiled then ignored me, you were all wrong. _I_ am Queen. _I_ destroyed my enemies, all of them, without a husband or a brother or a lover. I have been sold and bred and _disrespected_, but that is over. I am _the Queen_, and you will do as I command."

* * *

Weeks passed. Jaime drank milk of the poppy without fuss and slept for most of them. There were dreams, of course. There were memories and night terrors and monsters as well, but he avoided the wakefulness needed to consider or remember them at all costs. Qyburn cut him off when he began swindling second and third and forth doses out of passing servants and nearly choked on his own vomit. He didn't argue with the former master's decision. He wanted to, desperate as he was for the escape the milk gave him, but he couldn't find the energy. Truthfully, he couldn't find the energy for much beyond breathing and blinking most days. Even the pain of broken bones and too tight skin couldn't rouse a reaction anymore.

Jaime thought, sometimes, that he ought to be frightened, but he could find the energy for that either.

In the end, it was Qyburn who forced him up. The little man appeared in his line of sight with a modified crutch and manhandled him upright, heedless of Jaime's halfhearted protests. It hurt. It hurt with that deep aching pain that inhabited every fibre of his being, but the pain was oddly grounding and arguing took more energy than standing.

He was bathed and dressed where he stood. Bandages and red cloth. (_Like fire and blood_, his mind whispered.) A servant hurried off with a chamber pot he scarcely remembered using. Qyburn fiddled with the straps binding his remaining wrist to the crutch and checked the splint strapped to his broken ankle and declared him fit to leave the room.

Jaime wondered if it would be worth the pain to collapse where he stood, but the effort involved proved too much once anga and he hobbled from his chambers like a good little soldier under Qyburn's watchful eye.

They reached the King's Chambers just as his knees began to buckle, but at least he managed to present himself to his sister standing upright and clean this time before crumpling into a seat across from her.

"Qyburn tells me you're healing well."

_Was he_? Jaime didn't know how true that was, but he supposed it was the best thing to tell the Queen.

"You don't look well."

Now _that_ was true. He wasn't well. He wasn't right. He wasn't _him,_ but he couldn't bring himself to care… Flames danced before his eyes, green licking red and gold. Blood ran from his daughter's nose. Locke's blade glinted. Tyrion's stubby arms embraced him tightly. Rhaella's screams rang in his ears. Joffrey's purple face gaped at him. Tommen's innocent gaze begged for help. Fear glittered in the Stark boy's eyes. Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. The stones resting on his father's eyes. Burn them all. Burn them all —

"Jaime."

He blinked and his sister's face came into focus across the desk, impatient and frowning. "Just tired, is all."

Cersei's nose wrinkled slightly, but Jaime's gaze fell away before he could work out why so he was as near to startled as his apathy would allow when she reached across and cupped his cheek gently. "I've given your words some thought." The voice was his queen's, but the hand was his lover's… "And you were right."

Jaime doubted that, but said nothing. He couldn't have, even if he wanted to. Couldn't do anything more than sag into his sister's hand… _Gods, he just wanted to sleep_…

"Loyalty. Honour. _Legacy_. It is ours to maintain, now." Cersei tilted his head so their eyes met once more, the once matching green now sharp and bright and dull and lifeless respectively, "You told me once to fuck prophecy, and I did. The younger Queen has burned away. You told me that you and me were all that mattered in this world, and here we are standing atop the bones of our enemies. Am I still the only thing that matters, dear brother?"

_Of course she was. He knew nothing else…_ Jaime nodded into her palm.

"Good," she did not smile, "We are all that is left of our family, you and I. Mother, dead. Father, murdered. Uncles Tygett, Gerion and Kevan, dead — "

_Dead, missing and murdered_, he corrected dully.

"Cousins Lancel, Willem, Martyn and Tyrek, dead. Aunt Genna, killed along with her children in the fighting to sit that common whore you _respect_ so much atop the Riverlands — "

_Wait, what?_ The words tugged Jaime back to the present somewhat, and he lifted his head. "Aunt Genna's dead?"

Cersei's face twisted vindictively. "Didn't think to ask after her while you were drooling over the cunt, did you?" she mocked coldly, before her expression smoothed once more, "But no matter. We remain, and we are all that matters in this world. Lord Qyburn," she turned to the man who had been hovering in the doorway since their arrival, "Show the others in."

"Cersei, what…?" _The others? _Jaime wanted to understand, he wanted to pay attention, he _needed_ to pay attention but try as he might he just _couldn't_. Sleep and fog and nothingness swirled in his head while dull agony gnawed at him from within and without…

"Your failure at Highgarden has put us in a difficult position," the Queen voice was back, "And yet, for the sack of our family, I will allow you the opportunity to atone for your transgressions. We must secure our position, and you Ser Jaime Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, will secure both the Westerlands and the Reach. With much of the Reach fled to the dragon whore's side, I have given the title of Lord Paramount to Lord Randyl Tarly. You will marry his daughter, Lady Talla, and bring her back to Casterly Rock as a hostage if nothing else."

Brother and sister stared at each other for a long moment while Jaime tried, and failed, to react. He should feel something. He should be angry or jealous or slighted or shamed… He should _care_… But he didn't. He felt nothing at all.

Cersei, clearly, interpreted his silence as defiance. "I don't need your consent — "

"You have it."

Her eyes narrowed and she studied him as though she expected some kind of ruse, but a knock at the chamber door interrupted any further questioning. "Enter."

They did, but Jaime couldn't bring himself to look round. Instead, he let his head droop and his eye slide closed as he longed for sleep. It didn't come, of course, and the shuffling and snuffling of men dug like gnats into his head. Someone bumped his crutch, jarring the dismal excuse for a hand strapped to it, while someone else clapped him on the back in greeting. Jaime felt his body curl in on itself as he tried not to vomit. He couldn't do this. He couldn't do this. He couldn't do this…

"... Your Grace… honour…"

"... Lord Tarly…"

"... your father…"

They were talking now. Talking and laughing and drinking, no doubt, their words little more than jumbled sounds battering his mind. Where was Qyburn? He just wanted to _sleep_. Surely he'd earned a good hefty dose of milk of the poppy by now? Gods, he prayed the Tarly girl was quiet...

"... Highgarden… dragons…"

"... Targaryen girl…"

"... needn't concern… cannot change… together to retake…"

"... killed…"

Everything hurt. Everything _hurt_, and yet he felt nothing just as much. He was adrift, somewhere, and nowhere at all. Jaime pressed his broken foot into the floor and revelled in the sudden _real, right here_ pain that caused stars to dance across the inside of his eyelids.

"... fares your daughter?"

"... afraid… know. Brienne — "

Jaime's head snapped up, eyes popping open and searching frantically for the speaker because it _couldn't_ be…

" — is making her own way, as young knights do."

He looked like her. Jaime had never stopped to consider anyone sharing her look, but he did in every way. The square jaw. The unholy height. The straw-like hair. Even his dour expression was as much hers as his. Selwyn Tarth sat ramrod straight in a nearby chair.

"As young knights do," another voice, this one unfortunately familiar, mocked from somewhere behind him, "She's a _woman_."

"That will do, Lord Tarly." Cersei's tone may admonish the Reacher Lord, but her smile was predatory, "As it happens, I've heard tales of the Lady Brienne's adventures. Serving the false king, Renly Baratheon, and then the traitor's window, Catelyn Stark. Standing by while they mutilated my dear brother… And now, I hear, she is serving our late king, my _son_'_s,_ murderer, the traitor's daughter herself, Sansa Stark."

Selwyn's face was the colour of spoiled milk. Jaime's head spun.

"I've not heard from my daughter since her time among Renly's forces. I assure you, Your Grace, I know nothing of her current allegiances…"

"Of course," Cersei's smile grew somehow sharper. "Loose morality is a necessary trait for a Hedge Knight. Hardly a reflection of her Lord father at all."

There was a pregnant pause before Lord Tarth sighed, and Jaime recognized the look on his face as the same one Brienne had worn when she'd grown tired of his shit, albeit much paler, "I implore you, Your Grace, say what you mean."

The Queen leaned back in her chair, her movements deliberately slow as she poured herself a generous glass of wine and took a drink without breaking eye contact. "The Stormlands have been in shambles since House Baratheon fell," she said at last, "Divided loyalties. No clear chain of command. I would have you rectify that. Your daughter is your only heir, and a known traitor. I offer you a suitable bride, fertile and strong, and the title of Lord Paramount of the Stormlands in return for your loyal service to the crown."

"A generous offer, Your Grace — "

"Yes, it is," Cersei cut across him sharply, her tone noticeably colder than it had been a moment before, "Should something untoward befall your little Lady knight, Tarth would be left in a very unfortunate position…"

Selwyn went very still indeed, and Jaime suspected he wasn't the only one holding his breath.

"Lord Qyburn, would you fetch the Ladies?"

The former maester, presumably, obeyed for Jaime heard the chamber door open and close behind him. The silence that stretched out after his departure was tense enough that it seemed to suck the air from the room, and it remained that way until Cersei released the Storm Lord's gaze.

"Lord Tarly, it's good to see you up and about."

"I'm not sure about up, Your Grace, but your Lord Qyburn does brew an excellent poppy wine."

Jaime debated shifting to look at the man, he really did, but apathy won out again and he let his gaze fall back to the desk in front of him. Cersei couldn't know where Brienne was, could she? What was he thinking, of course she could… It was getting to her that would prove difficult. And yet she seemed wholly unconcerned by the rebellious Northmen, a ruse perhaps, or she had someone within their ranks… His eyes slid closed again as the thoughts chased each other around his head. Brienne had found Sansa, at least. _There's one oath kept, Rhaegar_…

"You've had time to consider my proposal, I take it?"

"There was nothing to consider, Your Grace, it would be my honour to bring the Reach to heal in your name."

"I'm glad to hear it. My brother, likewise, would be honoured to wed your sweet daughter."

_Honoured_. Jaime would have laughed at the choice of word if he could have. As it was, he kept still and quiet and prayed no one would address him. Brienne could be in danger, and her father certainly was, he should feel _something_ but there was nothing at all save for that dull distant pain and a pressure behind his eyes… He should say something, he knew. He should look at the man who would be his father by law, but he couldn't… Gods help him, _he couldn't do this_… They were still talking, but he _couldn't_. He just couldn't, couldn't, couldn't…

"Are you quite well, Ser Jaime?"

_No, _his mind screamed. (An answer? A prayer for anonymity? He didn't know…) _No, no, no, no! _The voice was too gentle and much too near to his ear. Jaime forced his eyes open and noticed, far too late, that he was shaking in his seat. He tried to stop, but failed. He tried to raise his head but failed at that too. His eyes tried to pinch shut again and he let his head fall further, trying to hide the tears blurring his vision from the sympathy in Selwyn Tarth's gaze. An answer. He needed to answer… "Just tired, My Lord." His voice sounded shattered, even to his own ears, but he got the words out at least.

"Yes, pain will do that to a man."

Qyburn's return, flanked by two young women, saved Jaime from the need to respond. He led them both to Cersei's side, and Jaime realized that he recognized both of their faces. Janei Lannister and Joy Hill, both of them cousins from his father's side, and two of the only Lannister left living. A fertile bride indeed…

"Lord Selwyn," Cersei addressed him, pinning him with her gaze once more, "May I present Janei of the House Lannister, trueborn daughter of my late uncle Keven, ten and five and flowered." She gestured to the younger of the two girls who, with her golden curls and green eyes, looked the plainer version of Cersei herself as a child. "And Joy Hill," she indicated the elder cousin, a dark-eyed girl with bone straight hair of pale gold and a soft face, "Natural born daughter of my late uncle Gerion. Should you accept my very generous proposal, either of these women are yours to wed. If not…" She left the threat unsaid.

"I could hardly choose between such lovely — "

"Save your chivalry, old man," another voice spoke up from the shadows in a tone of easy mockery, "I'll take the bastard off your hands. She'll do me just fine." The speaker stepped forward and Jaime saw a man with dark hair, a lazy smile to match his voice, and an eyepatch hiding one eye. He was well dressed, to be sure, but the clothes were worn and his leathers bore salt stains indicative of time spent at sea.

"Ser, I appreciate the gesture — "

"Oh, I'm not a knight. The Drowned God has no use for suits of armour and pretty oaths."

Cersei cleared her throat pointedly. "Lord Selwyn, this is Euron Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands."

"Lord Greyjoy?" Lord Tarly cut in, "I was under the impression your brother had styled himself a King in rebellion against the throne?"

"Yes, dear Balon was always dull as a sack of rocks," the pirate Lord raised a fist to his chest absentmindedly, "What is dead will never die and all that. Fortunately, I'm blessed with a far sharper wit than my brother and I assure you, I've no desire to be king. A throne is so small, but the world is so much more…"

"_Lord _Greyjoy," Cersei interrupted, putting an end to the posturing before it could truly begin, "Has proven himself a valuable ally these past few moons. As such, it is my honour to present him with a royal decree naming his betrothed Joy Lannister, trueborn daughter of Gerion Lannister."

Euron gave her an extravagant bow. "You honour me, Your Grace."

"It's no more than you deserve, My Lord," Cersei looked almost bored as she gestured their cousin forward to take the pirate's arm, "Lord Selwyn, your decision?"

The Lord of Tarth was stiff and stony-faced, but he bowed all the same. "I could not hope for a more lovely bride."

"Lovely," Cersei didn't bother to inject any warmth into her smile, "Lord Qyburn will escort you back to your chambers and wedding arrangements will be made posthaste."

Jaime gave up on any pretense of wakefulness as the other Lords and Ladies filed out as he allowed the mindless chatter and sound of heavy footsteps lull him toward long desired sleep...

"Lord Euron, wait a moment."

With a whine, Jaime forced his eyes back open in time to see the pirate flashed a wicked grin at the departing men. "And how might I serve my Queen?"

Cersei waited just long enough for the chamber door to close before smug smirk quirked her lips. "Your bastard in exchange for mine, I believe was the agreement?"

"You can't keep him," Euron matched her expression carelessly, "That wasn't part of our arrangement."

"I legitimized yours."

His laugh was sharp and biting and vicious, nothing at all like the careless words and smiles he offered. "Oh, I suppose I can spare him a few moons. I'll need him back mostly in one piece, though."

Cersei huffed a laugh of her own. "What do you take me for, My Lord?"

"A woman who knows what she wants, and takes it. I wouldn't bother with you otherwise."

"Charming."

"That's what they tell me," Euron's smirk grew and he leaned out the door, "Bastard! Get in here!"

Jaime felt his heart skip a beat as a man shuffled the room. White hair. Pretty, otherworldly features. Pale, porcelain skin… But, no, it _couldn't_ be… He forced himself to think, to focus, to stay here, now, and not drift away in shock. This man was too tall to be Rhaegar. His eyes were wrong — a grey that seemed almost turquoise rather than dark purple — his face was too thin and his shoulders too wide. No, this wasn't Rhaegar, but near enough…

"Jaime," Cersei was almost crowing, "May I present Aurane Waters, Bastard of Driftmark and the blood of old Valyria. Lord Euron presented me with a gift for an alliance well struck, and Waters is going to help me with it…"

He didn't want to look. He didn't _need _to look. He already knew. He knew by her tone and Greyjoy's smirk and Aurane Waters' sunken cheeks and haunted eyes…

_My sons will be golden dragons and kings._

_How does she control them? Do they obey orders? Are they soldiers or beasts?_

Oh Gods, he couldn't do this. _Please, I don't know how to do this_…

The dragon egg glinted red and gold in his sister's hands. Laughter echoed in his mind.

_You will always burn, Jaime Lannister._


End file.
